Just on the boundary line there lays a path. A path that is filled with dirt, a path that has dead grass overgrowing on each side that seems to tangle up and squeeze tight as it dries in the summer skies. There is no one to mend its nap for no one walks on the boundary line next to the path. It waits night and day for the one to mends its pain. That dies away every second that it waits for the fate to come and shake its roots for the dying will to come. It ponders and thinks what will to come. Oh poor path so ugly and unused when will they come to rescue you. From your direr feat that has been bestowed on you. Just on the boundary line you wait on the path that awakes with the pounding of a drum. Down comes as cold as stone a pounding of a wet cacophony over your body that so lays there untouched by even the beetles that scurry and rush. The desire of a touch that you so wish for has been granted. That selfish longing that you thirst for has been heard; the hard, dry, body of yours is now soft and oozing like jelly that has been mutilated by a knife. With the quick shower that had passed you feel the seeds of the dead tree sprout with joy. Rejoice and be proud for you are a path that lies next to the boundary line that has no life. Your wait is over and the ground will dine with greens that have never seen such a ground. But alas autumn has come and the chill of the night has begun to bud with fleeting touch as they dive in the dust. And resurface with a howl that wakes even the ghost that has long been dead on this rusty old path.
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