Demolished Dreams

In my city there is a vacant lot in every street, piles of plaster, brick and broken memories. A single door still stands banging in the breeze, vacant lots now where houses used to be.
We get a letter in mail, their evicting. Move our things out, they move the bulldozers in.
Just memories now, so if mundane or bad, those memories are all that were allowed to have.
Now that the kibble has taken back, all the places that we used to interact, do they see just a dim lit storage space or do they see all the things that we used to create. Even if only in the minds of us few, it kept them rotting with the wet wood. Do they see just a pile of rubble or the place where our dreams once stood?

Why are my memories always swept away? or covered over with coats of white paint?
once vivid memories they degrade and fade, solid black turns to charcoal gray.

A mixtape lost in the shift, the only evidence of bands that the big time missed. Photocopied
zines and ill attended gigs, handful of bands and fewer kids. So many bands that never left the
praco room were so much better than those that do. So many songs created from the thin air
were just left hanging there. So many plans i had written down the following day they were forgotten about. So many convictions i scribed in white and blue, the following day i put a line right through.

Why are my memories always swept away? or covered over with coats of white paint?
once vivid memories they degrade and fade, solid black turns to charcoal gray.