Tuesday, 5 November 2013

My home town.

My home town is silver and shimmer, seagull cries and echoes. It lies at the end of a long road that twists and coils through hills and valleys.

My home town is small, but vast. No one lives there, but everyone is from there. It is filled with ghosts of generations long gone who stand on street corners waiting for buses, queue patiently at the library, sit gazing out to sea. Smoking. Drinking. Lingering.

My home town carries its secrets close to its heart. Conspiracy theories whisper on the breeze, a scratch in the back of your throat. Shady characters hustle and haggle in dark alleys: fixing deals, breaking rules.

My home town is drenched in lust. Saturday night erupts in a hailstorm of emotion, enticing lovers to dance with white horses and throw caution to the wind.

My home town hibernates in my pocket wrapped in velvet and buried deep. Forgotten; it will be forever remembered, carried with me always.

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