Withered Gray Thing

Going back home is a sad thing everyone aging ungracefully the family dog is long dead they saved her purple collar the one with the tiny bell that's still ringing in everyone's head. Weeds and devils claw creeping silently around the periphery of a worn out property old bitters bursting out so easily-so violently. It used to be refreshing to visit now I can't wait to leave Going back home used to be a spray of minty green now it's a withered up gray thing waiting for the end.