Recurring Dream
There she stands
in silent repose,
her hair rests at her shoulders
under little white bows.
She fixates on the house
in a field with no trees,
it's lone luminescent window
emanates unease.
The path ahead is trodden,
She's been here before,
The wheat grass lays flat and broken
right up to the door.
Although the sky is painted
with streaks of blackened clouds,
the house casts an eerie shadow
upon the barren grounds.
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