Hidden
Figures slip amongst the shadows their heads bent, barefoot the cold concrete pounds the soles of their feet with each step. The contrast is sharp with soft grass, warm soil, squelching mud or springy moss. The florescent street lamps flicker casting a sickly yellow glow. Faded memories of dappled sunlight dance across the mind. A corner is turned, a pile of lumber is a pile of friends. They are seemingly smoke silhouettes against the grime in the flickering light, one must squint to see them, no stars are seen. Heads bowed, they keep vigil and shed silent tears. In the predawn light they slip back to the contrived park, with its perfectly planned gardens and manicured lawns, where weeds and wild flowers mercilessly murdered. It's a poor imitation of life, like the mannequins in shop windows. A lone cricket breaks the silence held by a forgotten symphony and they remember.
