By Ross Rosenberg

Strolling dreamily down a familiar street
in the direction of places long forgotten,
I was obliviously drawn to my childhood home.

Like a magnet,
I was irresistibly pulled
in the direction of my home,
where lost days, weeks and years
were anonymously recorded on a calendar
that no one ever saw.

The house, painted anew,
and the unfamiliar over-grown trees,
couldn’t hide memory stained streets,
where an emotionally desperate child
longed to simply frolic and play.

Until that day,
I had been too afraid
to revisit the room
long closed...
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