Lonely. By Michael Louw-young
I hear the echoes of the wind as I scamper past the lonely trees. I feel the soft grass tickle the tips of my toes as I walk through the lonely meadow.I smell the freshly baked muffins as the delicious air from the lonely oven oozes its way into my nose.I see the beers plate sit on the lonely table until I look up and see a photo frame hanging on the lonely wall.I taste the bitter lemon sting my mouth as I swallow it I know it has ended up in my lonely stomach.
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