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Rated: E · Poetry · Holiday · #989480
An observation of the holidays
Sickly smells from a kitchen
cold and dead for years,
The kitchen is lost and muted in a time
when stove fires burn and ovens
warm roasted hens and pumpkin pies.

Ripped boxes filled with foam chips
and rat turds lie crowded together,
in a space once reserved for pine needles
and red tinsel.

Merry times died with innocence.
Tis the season for being buried.


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