rich men's homes, square and grey and pristine against the abandoned farmhouses;
i wish i could take the battered stone bricks and place them into a snowglobe, and hold them tightly against my heart like a hearth.
i'd show them that someone still loves them, a boy from the other side of the river who knows loneliness like a creeping vine and mold left uncared for.
i want to tell the farmhouses in my snowglobe; you and me are so very alike.
you poor, hell of a town; so traditional in your views, hiding behind a facade of modernity.
starving and jobless youth and your dying elderly, bored and strained in the cold, but the money in the rich man's pocket doth keep him warm.
the sun is going down, and the walk up is the hardest part, when you're hungry and cold on bony knees. but the rich man doth drive by, and how he stares in horror at the ambulant zombie, the wandering ghost in leather and shoes full of holes.
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