Hills & Hollows

The silence is broken, by three laughing lads, racing bikes in the Hills & Hollows

There goes one and then the second, time passes, before the third one follows

They're chasing down the setting summer sun with rapid lows and slower highs

Blindingly drawn into the deepening pitch of shadows, where the Sandman lies

Their hearts are pounding and they are more than fearful, but the ride's a thrill

They're climbing mountains, below they hope no one's lurking who wants to...

Atop the tops they watch the horizon burning, as the hollows fill like inky pools

Turning them into the seductive sinkholes of the lucid dreamers and naive fools

Dusk is falling from the stars above, turning the shadows into something eerie

As if hiding a presence in the depths, stalking those who are weak and weary

The terror's forming in both their heads, for more than merely time has lapsed

In the fading last light they vainly try to race across chasms and yawning gaps

The dying embers glow and slumber on a fiery farrago of a dark reveries waves

Submerging the sun baked navigable tracks into an interminable invisible maze

And perhaps there is no escape, for he's lost and alone and recycling his breath

As exhaustion coerces him into another's dreams, or maybe he will meet his...

Night has finally fallen and nothing stirs, all rest in peace, in the Hills & Hollows

For wherever one or more might go, there's always something else that follows

And the lying Sandman waits, in every addled dream, until he finds compliance

But if the nightmares lurk, before the screams, they'll sometimes lurk in silence

Even The Ghosts Forgot

It stands apart and alone, in wrack and ruin, reflective but with naught to tell

An insignificant mark on a map, but once a home, reduced to an empty shell

Now it's only the wind that passes by, except for the passers-by on the B676

Where there's barely a second glance to the derelict pile of crumbling bricks

The empty windows host the hollow shadows, where only a darkness settles

Where there was hope before, now there is creeping ivy and stinging nettles

Perhaps it was a place of reveries, that were crushed to dust, like brittle glass

And when the key finally turned the lock, they were left to perish in the past

Today it's a desolate place, forever trapped in a hedge, on the edge of a field

And when the hinges last creaked, every last tale of the memories was sealed

Now there're no passers-by, except the clouds and the sky of passing seasons

Even the ghosts forgot, but the sun did not, as its shadow is cast and deepens