Marble Springs now rests quietly in the sunlight. Human
sounds have long since melted into the old boards, broken
from empty winters. Yet hidden in the abandoned dust,
the stories still weave their webs.
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Walking through ghost towns, you feel the shadows of feet
on old boardwalks, hear the whispers laid upon whispers.
Stranger, walk slowly among us.
Hear our tales.
Untangle our webs.
Write what we have not written.
No poem is attached to this. I'll write one. Ok.
Words spin the webs of connections, taking over the filaments of the unspoken until finally there is nothing left but the thread of the voice.
Words say so little.
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