The gathering of souls are huddling around in the autumn air in preparation for the winter
Writing can be a torturous pain that eats at your veins when your thoughts won't gather in one basket
The pushing of the past smothers your thoughts of these wandering souls from other dates
Carrying postcards of the voices they still want heard
Music drenched in dreary whimsy carry their whispers in the crisp air
The heat that surrounds the antiques in shadow-less corners
Press at my inner soul to finish their stories
Left in boxes behind each new generation.
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