You crawl in through
the woodwork... like a sentinel storm creeping over the fields. Raining down memories, pounding flora and fauna into muddled puddles of yesterday's meals. They've already been chewed. Regurgitated morsels that once appealed to a youthful appetite are not the same... the second time around. Not when years passed, like chuck wagons on a dusty cobbled road. And the admission fee, the one you never paid... the one you threw away... the one you tossed into the breeze for someone else to find? It is dangling on a slack line awaiting its remorse.
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AuthorMolly Roland is a writer by nature, and she enjoys stepping over the invisible lines society loves to draw. Categories |