going home

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the last time in, 
i was already out, 
returned for 
odds and ends;
room to room 
a ghost i walked, 
ill not knowing, 
where fate was going,
shedding tears 
for each bit taken.
left behind 
the golden ring, 
on hand an 
empty space;
absconding with 
a book of poems, 
and memory 
of friendship’s face.
the absinthe dream, 
of love it seemed, 
would sleep 
another night.

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