awfully familiar

I remember these walls, that gate, that garden

The bench I dragged in and painted just so to fix up the place

I thought I left it behind, scurried thru that crack in the west wall once - walked right out the gate a second time

Not sure why I come back here. It is pretty, my flower beds bloom with the flowers I like best. The shade under the red oak is perfect for an afternoon nap and nothing beats reading by the creek that runs thru the southern corner

But its kinda sad and dreary when the light shines brightly

And no one can really stay long - so it gets kinda lonely

And your visits aren't like they used to be

Not sure how long I can stay - or why I'd want to. A prison of my own design is still just that