In a small town, which owns the sunsets,
where coffee brews with the morning dew,
where the waves of history often repeat,
and folks are content with nothing new,
you grew up, seeing silence respected,
even when there was nothing to revere.
The days rolled on, as you’d expected,
till the monotonicity grew too severe.
One day, under a sundown-red sky,
you left the small town far behind,
till it was a speck of dust in the wind.
and you pledged never to hit rewind.
Pledges are broken sooner than dreams,
like broken crayons and half done art,
you returned for what you’d left behind,
hidden in the grass, your beating heart.
It was by the brook, where the grass is high,
among tiny pebbles and hours spent.
You cradled your heart and left the town,
the fireflies guiding you round the bend.