Ghosts of the Suburbs

Ghosts of the Suburbs In the winding streets where silence haunts, The houses whisper secrets, buried in their fonts. Curtains drawn tight, shadows stretch and sway, Behind pastel doors, dreams quietly decay. Lawnmowers scream like ghosts of the past, A façade of laughter, but it never lasts. The pavement cracks under the weight of despair, Beneath suburban skies, nothing’s really fair. White picket fences hold the darkness tight, Where the flickering streetlamps betray the night. Children play pretend in a world dressed in lies, While steel-toed boots stamp out the softest sighs. Suburban lullabies sing a chilling tune, Echoing through alleys, beneath a hollow moon. Cigarette ashes pool beneath the porch light, As hearts grow restless, shrouded in twilight. We chase the horizon, but it’s never enough, Trapped in this playground, where the kids are tough. Trading dreams for comfort, we wear our chains, Ink-stained memories wash off in the rain. And when the sun sets on our double lives, We hide the decay under glittering knives. But in every whisper, in every street— The dark breaks the silence, that hollow heartbeats. So I’ll drink the air of this desolate