The Telephone Booth
Beneath the pale and waning Moon
beneath the shadows cast by wary Stars
In City streets where solitary stories thread
By the cold lonely telephone booth
It is a parade of masked faces
along these busy streets
a ceaseless tide of human flow
more than I can ever count.
What pains do they wittily hide
behind the hustling bustling?
which tear-soaked nights do they dry
every blessed morning?
Strangers cast fleeting glances
at the figure by the telephone booth
but they never can know
the lonely heart breaking silently.
Never will they see
the tears falling like the morning rain
the promises in a heap of debris
the fragmented pieces trodden carelessly.
By the telephone booth, i wait still
feeling the wires unspoken fires
praying solemnly with a silent plea
that Love would return in a SIMPLE CALL.
An original poem by @edith-4angelseu
Image created with A.I.
Thank you for stopping by my neighbourhood.