Dead End and Turn

The asphalt ends in circle cracked,

where childhood bikes no longer tracked.

New cars line up, fresh lawns trimmed,

a street alive but edges dimmed.

The orange cone falls tipped and slow,

a sentinel that does not know.

Kids unload bags where I once played,

while shadows stretch and memories fade.

A dead end street that holds a breath,

between the pause of life and death.

Here, stillness drags its tangled net,

waiting for what I can’t forget.