Gone was the Day

The sounds of a psychopath echo in sleep.
A turnout like crying fathers or
many suicidal thoughts hijacking the brain.

In a plot of grass, amongst the city,
an Oak tree has been growing.
For years it has witnessed
the neighborhood mutate.

The poor have been shifted west
with no sun to rise.
Single family homes have been erected,
flowers hidden behind fences.

Beer bottles and needles were the landscape.
Painted like two dollar hookers,
open fire hydrants in the summertime.