Small Towns Poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar

What is done to do with age.
Stays done to do to age.
And mold to rust crumbled to dust.
Never again to be thought as new.
No matter what innovations are made.
That fades a facade decaying.
Praying with hope,
Coates of fresh paint saves.
For those laboring with wishes to visit,
Paths their ancestors in the past had paved.
Unable to let go,
Fables of tales and myths over told.

Although...
Commendable the doing,
What is done to do with age.
To age and stay that way.
Yet...
Sought to seek is progress to embrace.
Not to chase.
But await for it to anticipate.
By the ones left behind.
Sooner or later to find,
Small towns inhabited by even smaller minds...
Abandoned.
With signs of the past,
A future moving too fast to explain...
The benefits to welcome it.
Or time to give to waste when it came,
To go.