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Larger than a hamlet,
but smaller than a town,
Almostville sits near the
foot
of a range of hills
not quite mountains,
And close to the coast,
but not nearly enough
to see the ocean.
Years and years passed, but
almost nothing changed.
Anything new always seemed,
too good to be true.
Citizens said they believed
in God, but didn't really.
Doctors reported nearly
yearly
they almost cured the cold.
Fridays ended each week,
but weekends never came.
The clock in the village
square
never struck at midnight.
Visitors always window shopped,
but not one bought a thing.
Saplings were carefully
watered,
but into trees didn't grow.
Children seemed very happy,
though without a smile.
Sadness surely came and
went,
but no one ever cried.
So many stories to be told,
but no one even dared.
Songs sat on many a lip,
but not a one was shared.
The little village that could,
though never ever did;
Almostville's not on a map,
but it's nevertheless true,
we all know the way,
Where folks want the best,
but because of their fear,
almost, alone, is all
they'll ever hold
near and dear.¹ |
