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My hand stretches
Towards the woods’ etches
Of trees
With leaves
Rough, brown bark
With curved marks
Formed a throne
I sit firmly like a cone
Sunlights flood
Like browned mud
Through the shade
The trees made
My feet stride
Forward; I ride
Through the black, gravel path
Wet puddles drawn like a bath
A dull, yellow shed
Stands on the path led
Its wood is splintery
As if it lived many years through history
I walk down
The black, gravel path wounds
I walk towards home

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