Concrete Ghosts

At the bus stop, kids' laughter cuts like a knife,

playful and vibrant, but echoing strife.

A stranger remarks how this place has grown cold,

whispers of memories carved deep in the mold.

Cracked bricks beneath me, graffiti decays,

telling a story of years lost in haze.

They don’t care about us, but still, we remain,

a shadow of hope wrapped in asphalt and pain.