Rage Against The Dying Of The Light

I used to know this place so well.

Give me berries, give me time — I don’t think I can make this right. I learned a long time ago that anything built can be torn down; they started with my bones, likened them to rotting floorboards, bruised my eyes and called them stained glass.

Is it funny that my feet held maps? The creek’s dried out now. The trees are dying. I suppose it’s no surprise that nothing lasts forever. The paths have grown over, and I’m not sure where to go anymore. It’s been such a long time.

When I look around me, seeing only faded and gone, I cannot deny I would’ve rather it disappeared all together than have turned into this.

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