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Coming home to home
Is always difficult,
When the weather favours
Tears shed somewhere else.
It's not the serpentine roads
Creating havoc among houses
That would rather be left alone.
It's not even the mode of transport
Which thins out as the night
Creeps in, wearing the witch's clothes.
It's the tireless sweat working
Among armed denizens carrying
Mundane carriers of shame
No matter where they go.
It's the inability to return
Even when you're standing exactly
Where you were, an hour ago.