Wednesday, January 24, 2007

GrassUsed To Be Green Here

Days drift by. Still no signs of the weeping, still no signs of the man breaking down to cry.

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When the rain feel, the plants stood, to attention, with their withered head held high, breathing in the smell of hot moisture on oil soaked roads. The city let out a sigh, the wilted stems of grass thought to themselves ?we may just get by?.
It used to be green here, there, everywhere. Kids used to lie on the green, in the park, morning, noon and then after dark the oldies would roll, with out paying a toll. It used to be green here, on the side of these train tracks, where water used to trickle from the graffiti walls, down to the rocks, and out the window, the green would pass my by. It used to be green here, in the front of this house, where the cricket kids play, where the mothers with prams walk their way. It used to be green here, on the ground, there used to be shiny coins to be found when you could crawl from here to there, on the moist soft feeling on the sticky grass and plants under your feet. You could dance softly to any beat, here on the green. Used to be.
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