Small Town Desires

The narrow alleys
your feet find familiar
worn pavement to brick down below
And the crumbling curbs
that wash to the gutter
in the shadow of the lamp post

And the red on white
and the whitewash on red brick
and brick on the wood beams and stone
While the white houses
with barely-kempt lawns
and wide porches stand all alone

but I need a numbered street
I need a tower
To watch yellow beetles race
at any hour
And a sweet old lady
whose temper turns sour
when we're up 'til 4 AM dancing
when we're up 'til 4 AM dancing

The Past

We are defined by our past. Driven by it. Our successes spur us on, while our failings serve as lessons. Our past is part of who we are, no matter the degree to which we embrace or run from it. Those who would run from their past are fools, for as it is part of us it will always be with us. We cannot remove it; we are irreparably linked to it as we are it. There are times when it may seem a world away, forgotten and lost, but it is always there. And until we come to terms with it, accept it as part of us, we will be forever running from that which we cannot escape.