The quiet of this town is strange,
In an ancient, haunted sort of way.
The houses are locked up tightly;
There are curtains over each window.
I wonder if there are ghosts here,
Or just people who have lost their way.
Maybe they wear their old clothing,
Just to remember how it once felt
To be young and wild and free,
Before the aging and the wrinkles.
Maybe they once had grand parties,
Where the rich guests would dance recklessly.
Maybe they fell in and out of love,
Oblivious of outside problems.
Maybe they miss their party days,
And wish that they could live them again.
Maybe they lock their houses up
To hide their lonely little faces,
And avoid all the townspeople
To run away from their grey future.
Maybe when my youth has left me,
I will become exactly like them.


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