The Street With No Name

        The blocks of cement are the most timeless, yet carry the least amount of footprints. The world around is trapped in a sphere full of woods. The echo that caresses off blank faces and clueless stares makes it seem like no one is there. Heads propped low, a world with no care. They all stand still with no motion to bear. No people to pursue and nothing to lose. Silence surrounds the street like a blanket. Chilly, cold, restless, and hollow. No thoughts to follow, for the street is as quiet as can be. The street, where no one walks, no one talks. The street that hides in a town of ghosts. That hides in a state of loneliness — a state of despair. Those who know the fate of this lonely street can hear it chant a chant oh-so-sweet:

 

“Because it’s not do or die

And in the situation I might cry

But all is new and unfamiliar too

My personality is untrue

Look at the world around me

And you’ll see that I’m about as lonely as I can be”

 

        The street with no name. No people to give it a name. No dogs to sniff its name. No shopkeepers to take its name. No kids to shout its name. No travelers to confuse its name. 

 

        The street with lots of history, yet little interaction, suffered a fate that none of us could dream of. 

 

        The Street With No Name.