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Rated: E · Poetry · Dark · #2243561
Returning back to my childhood home.
Among the lifeless trees
and cobble stone paths,
a fog always creeps, thick and grey.

The silhouettes of twisted branches
resembles the crooked fingers
of grasping hands.

Among these dead trees
and thorny vines
is my childhood home.

My happiness always
grew in all the places
happiness shouldn't grow.

Croak the crows
hunched on leafless branch
a sweet welcome home
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