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I sit on a hill overlooking an old strip cut lake, and I puke.

I am sick at the sight of houses filling the ground of what used to be forest.

I am sick at the thought of a wood torn down; to make way for men of means.

I am sick of seeing acres bulldozed to please people who have no soul.

Why leave town,
just to come down,
to the woods, and
Bulldoze a place,
to create,
another stinking town?
Just another town,
with more rules to flee?

I ran that wood as a child.
I knew every tree by name.
The birds sang and the wind spoke,
where the campfire roared.

The imagination soared,
and the spirit knew life,
in that sea of trees, no more.

Dead from this hill top.
That place where nature thrived,
animals lived,
and spirits whispered into the mind.

The deep woods of longing,
where cavemen and dragons roamed,
and bad boys hid.

A home to memory, and love;
to promises lost, and dreams now dead. That flickering forest,
gone for now.

Until things change,
and there appears that longed for world,
with the children of God restored.

Published by Chris Bunton

Publishing Editor for The Yard: Crime Blog.

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