High walls of lost impressions,
marked by years of stagnant dreams.
Rolling by the caravans in park,
reminds me of those feelings,

where days were long and stayed
the same from dawn to dusk,
and people only grew in years,
but nobody grew up.

Then, in sudden shock to me,
those people have all left.
The years ain't what they used to be.
I left a lot there to regret.

Sunday held my breath for me,
but Monday left me longing,
for something that would never be
returned, once it was gone.

Hey, shattered ghost towns,
I could draw a map of you.

But I'd only get half way through.