Going Back

Selflessly built
Board by board;
The tangy aroma of sliced lumber
Seeping through handsome curtains and intricate furnishings;
Sophisticated, home-like.
My castle where I’d spend hour after hour
Playing the “real life” game.
Hovering a thousand feet off the ground,
Aligned with the sun, stars,
And all else unknown.
Peering through the window,
Greeting my neighbors
Who both sang me the song of the mourning dove
Each day.
Life was simply beautiful.

Now I stare up,
Ten feet
To where I used to spend my days:
The weathered tree house
Resting exhausted, upon the arms of the spruce;
Reminiscing of the seemingly perpetual years.
Watching the elderly mourning dove
Perching solitary on the tree’s shoulder,
As he sings a familiar song
In a raspy tone— out of tune.
Inside, tattered curtains sway
With yesterday’s breeze,
And Momma’s old lawn chair
Lies toppled over, rusted with time.
This house was all I knew,
When life was simple.





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