Our home.
Lost forever now.
A stone lichened halt.
This place of echoes silenced.
The brambled path, sharp with stories.
No swallows make their eaved homes there.
With scant water collected in slime rotted barrels.
Yellowed curtains at the windows, rotted by the sunlight.
Paint scabbed door jambs, broken steps and an uneasy porch.
Would anyone lean into the doorway, to check the ghosts within?
Why would you seek this reminder, when no one goes home again?
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