This Book

This book is torn and its yellowed pages dirty,

Its holds within its tattered spine a knowledge of emotions passed,

Hidden smiles and loves longing of the past,

Remembering parts of the story far better than they were,

And always way too eager to venture back and re-read,

The wind whistles through my now empty fields,

Where great trees stood proud and strong,

The light dances on the fences that here I built tall,

And the smoke still climbs silently from the rubble of it all.

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