The Spirit of Memory

 Ah the coldness always gets to me

The bluntness of walks
My drive in sharp turns
The grasses go flat
In every step
And I will head down the path
To take consequence
About terrors
And nervous laughs
The glint
Their faked plurality
And I will sit stiff
While they talk about
virtue in low seats
I am holding my head
While stones continue pouring
Out from the room
With shine
The floors are needlessly
Shining
Surprisingly,
I am reminded of wooden boards
Like of
My scrambled eggs are starting to smell
home.

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