This is a quaint part of town
Quieter than most
So small you’ll likely never notice it
If you blinked as you drove…
It’s a quiet place
Because we do not speak
You notice us not
Because we are more transparent than most…
Still,
If you should happen this way,
Perhaps you’ll be the voice of this place?
Stick around for a day or two,
Maybe you’ll discover where disappeared
The Radio’s tune?
It is on, sure,
But,
No matter the station
It plays, nothing…
You may ask, why we don’t speak
To be fair,
That’s a another mystery
Entirely…
That’s the least of the oddities in place
As sometimes we see something on the horizon…
It looks a storm,
The sky is black,
It never grows night
Where we are at…
Still,
There it sits
On most days
Never really growing closer
…Or so it seems…
Then there’s the mystery of the umbrella graveyard
That’s what we call it anyways…
That is the place all the umbrella’s in town
…Are…
To this day, they still remain…
It makes no sense,
You can not remove them from their place
They sit in a suspended animation
Unreachable to us…
There are other oddities afoot in this town
At noon every day
A man appears
Pale as a ghost
Old as the oldest person we’ve seen
He stands for 1 minute
Before vanishing
This town has no name
We are rarely ever seen
Should you join us however,
Perhaps you could solve its many mysteries…
We are a place all our own
We’ve likened to calling the place…
-The Quiet Ones Home-
