Ghosts rise from the cracks of the grey stone pavements, walk this town in top hats with feathers fitted in, and wear candy stripped blazers.

A mind so full its overspill is packed in plastic bags and portable suitcases, people colour minds, brighten days as they move to different places.

Passing strangers fade  but thoughts and voices like stale smoke linger, until their negativity rises to the clouds to create hopeful lines of silver.

Broken noses bent by life, perch beneath their sad sullied sunken eyes, through decaying teeth they offer, the most surprising generous warm smiles. 

Stop and chat a while with a complete and utter stranger, perplexed the words they glide from this sharp tongue of what is now blunt discarded razor.

Philosophies are living out, tall stories walk the streets and spin, on the journeys from nowheres end, but from where does their nowheres end begin.

These are real truths not lies and reflect a glint of self-madness, salute the lone magpie as it wings beneath the steel commemorative statues.

The karmic wheel connects the dreams from those still digging deep, spiritual fore fathers inner voices they guide beyond, bond, bind and reach.

Physical spirits manifest, white feathers float with grace, the traveling troubadour chasing rainbows end, disappears, with only their song to trace .

These are not just spoken word but real lives and real live matter, whispers caught within the wind today, and in the breeze therefore forever after .

Transcendent broken hearts and minds, voices reach up from the deep, mining souls entombed and sealed their week's pay, forever they will keep.

Time spent in shadows still, those lost soul's ghost and they resonate, black echoing bellies of coal dust burn, within the shaft that sealed their fate .

Of those kindred spirits we see a fleeting peak, within the realm of the poet's rhyme's, reciting injustice we can speak, verses echoing and reflecting.

Shadows, and silhouettes, drift, bristle, brood, and glisten, through the troubadour and the poet's song, the stories are forever ours to remember and to listen.