Black Rusted Gates

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Once again, I walk on the street that is seldom walked on.
In the next street around the corner bustles, even at dawn.
Where the yellow leaves have dappled the grey hard concrete,
Where the rain leaves behind darker shades of grey, becoming obsolete,
I touch the creaky, black, rusted gate of the place I had once called home.
Prior to such visit, for hours alone I had roamed.
With each familiar step, faded memories haunted me.
Such lucid evidence, so difficult for me to see.
But, in the end I returned to the very place I began.
The iron pillars across the small horizon span,
Open-able from the outside even if locked from the inside,
To enter and unseal the latch, I had yet to decide.
I reminiscence a million events in a second.
The whispering of the wind, it beckons.
Finally, when I got the courage to walk into the apartment,
My journey ended at the second door by the mail compartment.
For I had no key or old acquaintance to shepherd me past.
The iron door made it clear how far I may look; Avast!
I traipsed back out to the black rusted gates, guarded on each side by a conifer tree.
And noticed the old Keep Out sign had been sliced to negligible words, Kee.
Creaking, as if to wail in complaint when I shut and locked the gates,
In the rain, I departed for a train and then a bus to wait.
To touch the nonexistent gates of the place I now call home.





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