What’s Left Of Her

I dig old shacks. Makes me wonder who ate their dinners here and then went to bed to dream their dreams. In the morning waking up to peer out the now shattered windows. Who walked these floors, maybe a cowboy or homesteading lovers, gurus, drunks or perhaps a wishful prospector.

Those collapsed walls must’ve seen it all. Next winter ought to finish off what’s left of her and the secrets she conceals—-such a shame nothing last forever.

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