I continue to persist restricted dreams.
Abandoned fantasy.
An off-white picket fence
nailed together with picket signs
held aloft by shattered-mirror shards
reflecting shadows of me.
I believe I have been rightfully cautioned
to enter an area so protested.
They have become
broken buildings;
seven stories high
and one-thousand fables wide.
A failed business
once called home.
These tall tales
have been desolate
as of late.
Rife with paint chipped
on three-legged tables and
and black pieces dangling from
rusty swinging gates.
These dreams were abandoned.
And are now a haunted place.
Will I raise candle-wick and key
to enter such a darkened door?
No more I say.
I will have myself forbade;
the re-entrance of memories,
the greetings of ghosts,
and the ever remnant
metamorphosis of a nightmare.
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