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the bones of the house still smoldering
scarecrow still perched at the apex
bowing down, meant to serve
a lightning rod, a scapegoat

 

what's been destroyed never really goes away
it merely becomes "the place where it used to be"
you can't burn away the ashes
nor the memories



the same applies to the house
as to the scarecrow
as to the arsonist
as to the mythological god of fire
as to anyone who should pass us by

 

if we were never really gone
then we were never really here

 

 

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