I join you on the road of dread,
and slip my kid gloved hand
within your calloused own,
looking silently back at
the graves our roots were
sown on.
Just remember, we still stand
strong, the compost
heap became our home,
and now it's time to leave
Occasionally grieving it's
putrid absence.

Tarnished by it's
nostalgic scent.

Filled.