Edges Of Times Town Poem by Peter S. Quinn

The days are coming clearly through
With what they want to share and do

With the edges of times town
In their morning of whitish gown

The strangeness of Stillness Street
Of the echoes from goner’s feet

The look of the chilled out run
From existence of once children’s fun

Doors of every nocturnal Sunday
In vanished songs of work and play

The miles maker though time's dust
That rushed along sideways and got lost

What in to the goings disappears
With burn of the longings in their years