Ghosts

I.
There once was a beautiful field,
A lush verdant paradise
Hidden far away, concealed
From the world's darkness and vice.
Every spring after winter had thawed
The children would trickle out in ones and twos
And play by the lakeside with their fishing rods
And footballs, with no need for shoes.
In the summer they'd have picnics
And try to catch fireflies at night,
Some were into magic tricks,
It was always a delight.
And when these kids had grown
A new batch would find its way there,
But now we reap what we have sown,
And the field more or less lays bare.

II.
He used to run on the grass,
With soft and tender feet,
Now they're hard and calloused,
From running in the street.
He used to have a friend,
But she had moved away
And now he's left alone to spend
These endless banal days.
He used to go outside,
If only to walk around,
You can't say he hadn't tried,
To find a connection in this town.
He used to believe,
In a madness they called now,
And he used to believe,
In a light shining through somehow.
And now it's gone without a trace,
You might say he'd been freed,
But if you look beneath the surface,
He's dead, and dead, and dead indeed.

III.
I looked out on the slovenly field.
It opens, like the cover of an old Bible with tattered and musty pages.
Where once was green had turned to brown,
And once was lively had turned to ghosts.
There were no fishing rods or footballs, fireflies or magic tricks,
But instead empty wrappers, bottles, and a stained old blanket down by the dried lake.
There's no one left who remembers.
The footballs are transparent, the memory girl almost invisible.
Everything's in boxes, the same pictures play over and over again.
You revisit them, every once in a while.
Remember, for a short time, when you were crass enough to care.
When you could fight and win.
Then you have a beer, then you have a Valium.
The boxes go back in the closet,
And all that's left to do is carry on.
Carry on and survive.