Winding Through Tragedy

The world did not exist here.
Freedom was the breath of dreams.
Children laughed and played
with no fear
of the speed demons
that now tear up down
the road,
passing houses
by only an inch
from life.
There was no struggle,
no burden to carry,
and taxes were not high.
But now, the key remains,
held in place
in the doorknob to a home,
an empty home
because we can't live here anymore.
The world has come crashing down,
and the price of land,
the cost of gas,
and the rise of the need to live,
to eat,
and to survive
has become a choke hold,
forcing us to surrender,
forcing us to leave
where we always called home.
No warm, sunny days here.
No fresh breath of freedom.
There are only tears,
rain pounding cold streets,
where we fear
to be forced
to live.
We broke the world,
digging deep into its heart,
when there are people in need,
people forced to make hard choices,
and people now left in darkness,
alone in despair,
and crying over what is gone.
The children are no longer laughing and playing.
The roads are winding
further and further away
beyond its small, fragile towns.
This is where we are,
traveling endlessly
in search of hope,
in search of dreams,
and in search
of how things used to be.