Where the Sun Never Rises

On the other side of the white picket fence,
where the barren patches of grass blades
brown before they reach the sky,
where barren trees
just creak and fall before they bear fruit,
life is stripped,
never given,
never asked for,
yet stolen.

On the other side of the white picket fence,
shadow touches shadow,
corner to corner,
no spaces in between
for the sun to rise
for rays to touch and shed their light.

The sun never rises.
And neither do they.