Shadows of Pink Houses
In the heart of a small town,
Where the sun melts into
Painted facades of pink
And whispers of a dream.
A man stands at the corner,
Rough hands calloused by the weight
Of promises he never made
But still, he dreams of them.
The grass is green, but faded,
Under the weight of history
And tire tracks that mark the passage
Of time and ambition.
Beneath the pink, the walls sigh,
Hiding the cracks and echoes
Of laughter that never quite filled
The emptiness of quiet nights.
In the windows, light dances,
Not with the brilliance of promises
But with the steady glow of
Hope that endures beyond the paint.
Here, the houses whisper tales
Of lives that chase the sun,
Holding tight to dreams that blend
Into the soft hues of dusk.
The pink houses stand resilient,
Amidst the whispers of the past,
Guardians of a simpler truth
That dreams can be both broken and whole.
“Ever busily winding the golden thread which bound her husband, and her father, and herself, and her old directress and companion, in a life of quiet bliss, Lucie sat in the still house in the tranquilly resounding corner, listening to the echoing footsteps of years.” `Charles Dickens~ Your poem reminded me of this quote from a Tale of Two Cities. I feel the same wistfulness. I hear the echoes of the past resounding through the corridors of your pink house like faintly marching footsteps of time. Well, Done!