Some call this chaos.
She proudly calls them scars.
They try to heal daily,
beginning with the morning sunrise.
Much like a Polaroid,
the images are faded,
but the smell of sweet release
seldom crosses her path.
So much laughter and memories
are now covered with age.
The house no longer carries hope
so much as strength.
The last time she stepped into that building
her memories did not fit the surroundings,
they were too busy pealing.
Like a shadow at night
crawling across on a wall
she keeps waiting for the light
to paint her image, shape,
and scare away what cannot be
answered or changed.
This feeling will soon come,
and visit,
again tonight.
A shadow doesn’t exist without its light.
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