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Apr 2021
The Traveler
My wide path grew narrow- still and rushing its gate, an Autumn's chill, intruding through patches of torn cloth that turned to flaccid frills. Above me, a misty veil Hung its somber vapor tale- Inviting weariness to prevail Upon once bright vision-to pale The bush, the leaves in silence stood A reminder of a greener wood Brandishing all they could On their vests of golden palettes. As life is to death and death is to life and all is understood. In solemn silence the towers hide Behind a distant tapestry Yet they are the lighthouse, The way home.
Written by
Robert meacham
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