Coming back home
I feel wedged between my old persona
And the frontiersman forging a new path
Through muddy terrain
This position puts hearts to sleep
Old furnished smells
Running races through time
Smiles burnt like coffee steins
On rusted dimes
Treasured paintings
Old album records
Minds ripped apart
As if peach, cardigan sweaters
The truth scales walls
As tall as giraffe necks
To escape its prison cell
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