kolmanlit
Brotherly Love
Balls bouncing, bicycles passing,
Twelve year-olds with their twelve-year-old thoughts.
The girls are more attuned to their hopscotch
on the other side of the street.
It is a San Diego neighborhood block.
The beauty of the parents lies within.
Their love is safe in the living room.
Spectres pass, ghosts glancing at the children.
They keep walking, the children keep playing.
The children are familiar with one another.
Still, the judgment is,
the children haven't a ghost of a chance
while those ghosts are passing by.
They've created a ghost town.
The children are too young to accuse.
At least these passing spirits are not hostile.
But, the children do not stand a ghost of a chance
while they continue to pass.
The rich and the poor
are all ensconced within the surrounding homes.
These ghosts are not their parents.
Not literally anyway.
They may be their teachers, their futures.
Children here are toys playing their play,
as empty of life as the wraiths that pass.
Love stays within the home, a parent boasts.
Ghosts are not people.
This is a street,
not a loving environment.
Smiles fade, feelings erode, children play.
When these children grow into these ghosts,
then they will be happy.
You may have to look for brotherly love elsewhere.
Twelve year-olds with their twelve-year-old thoughts.
The girls are more attuned to their hopscotch
on the other side of the street.
It is a San Diego neighborhood block.
The beauty of the parents lies within.
Their love is safe in the living room.
Spectres pass, ghosts glancing at the children.
They keep walking, the children keep playing.
The children are familiar with one another.
Still, the judgment is,
the children haven't a ghost of a chance
while those ghosts are passing by.
They've created a ghost town.
The children are too young to accuse.
At least these passing spirits are not hostile.
But, the children do not stand a ghost of a chance
while they continue to pass.
The rich and the poor
are all ensconced within the surrounding homes.
These ghosts are not their parents.
Not literally anyway.
They may be their teachers, their futures.
Children here are toys playing their play,
as empty of life as the wraiths that pass.
Love stays within the home, a parent boasts.
Ghosts are not people.
This is a street,
not a loving environment.
Smiles fade, feelings erode, children play.
When these children grow into these ghosts,
then they will be happy.
You may have to look for brotherly love elsewhere.
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Brotherly Love
Brotherly Love
