A Street Lined With Text

From the children's stray, 

it is from whence they play. 

But now encompassing night makes a pass, 

in those who wonder for when it shall last. 

Houses illuminate, 

the humming of electricity delicately accented. 

But not a sound comes. 

Not the rustling of leaves, 

but even the feline of eaves. 

Moonlight breathes down the necks of each and every street. 

Oh how serene! 

But not! the texts of time lay still, 

their bodies damped, 

strung from life. 

They sit waiting, 

waiting for another time. 

They are appreciated no more, 

the screen is for sure. 

Classic stories, 

oh how our children loved them, 

the eves of Christmas, 

when our cousins, 

sisters, and brothers all came to snore. 

From darkness it is the screen, 

but from light may we see our stories once again.