I wanted to live
where the streets were not named
and the books had no words.
Where the days were not numbered
and the billboards were blank.

Only there did I ever
meet the man
sitting alone
talking to a tree.

The old oak whispered
his secrets to me,

"He is alone
except for thee
in a sea of madness
called life."

I talked to him that day.
"Be somebody,"
he said nothing more.
He was the killer of lies.

Now the wind no longer
sings for me;
instead it wails and cries.

The clouds no longer
shake with laughter;
now there is hatred in the skies.

The trees no longer
talk to me;
I can only hear silence inside.

I must put the world back together again
for until then,
I cannot leave this place
where the streets live without names.