The Clearing
Pulling myself from the brush
thorn ripping tictures in skin and cloth
a mumble from the darkening clouds
whisper traces of slipping rain
before me stood a battered domain
its windowed eyes
unwelcoming and barren
turning the path behind me swallowed
by decaying leaf fingertips
once again surveying the hovel before me
my eyes darting between shade and light
hoping for a trace of life
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