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{a poem}

By Raistlin AllenPublished 3 years ago 1 min read
10
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Photo by Mark Olsen on Unsplash

There is a crack

in the upstairs hallway, crooked and fine;

outside the trees grimace at me, their knotty faces—

the lines, the seasons—know nothing of change,

.

that there is another door at the end of another hallway,

deep brown carpeting for sleepless nights and then

the dark kitchen staring back at me through the lit numbers on the microwave:

2:43.

.

Still somewhere nearby there is a house being built,

an oblong red rock on the construction site that I will pick up, moving from skeletal room to skeletal room,

lying flat on a pile of wood, inhaling pine scent deeply,

surrounded by phantom walls to which I will return every summer

.

after the cabin, the smell of must, the worn grey couch, the yellow-red glow, checkered

tablecloth, riding the lake contained in a globe of sky, the stars shaken down like snow—the call

of the loon in darkness over black water crying an emptiness that wants more, a fullness with

nowhere left to go

.

{This poem is a tribute to some of the first places I knew as home. If you enjoyed, please consider dropping a heart! Tips are appreciated but of course not necessary- I write regularly here, so subscribe if you want more of my delightful ramblings in your inbox! xx Raist}

surreal poetry
10

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