There is an oak tree
at the end of a winding road
Out passed the beaches
and the ritzy mansions,
Up on a cliff at the edge of the world.
I visited it with her in the spring of our relationship
Gates rattling, wind howling.
That was then. This is now.
The gate is locked; A toll upon the past
Pay it, and you can go back
but at the gate you have to leave a piece of yourself
How many times can I go back?
How much of me will be left behind?
Slowly eating away heart and amygdala, bone and sinew.
Soon just me in dust on the cliff, looking back, failing to move on.
Follow me on Twitter: @JoshKrook
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