November 7th.

I walk through a barren cave
yet it's well-lit 
so brightly it burns

I do not like it here much anymore
not like I used to 
when the walls were laced with promise;

But blame lingers in the corners of the walls
and regret devours the windowpanes,
and the dust clouds under the tables
and the dirt and grime encrusted upon
everything,

like it was never new
never anything special
just a simple place
a simple grave
dug by those who walk there every day
mulched by an unknown specimen
whose name is a mystery to the world.

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