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 The Recluse
Stale, choking air fills his sanctuary.
Threadbare slippers shuffling
over hardwood floors is his song.
Old, unread books line up high
on dusty shelves, his only friends.
A small desk lamp casts
pathetic, lifeless beams of light.
Eerie, flickering shadows dance
on the dull, gray walls.
He passes by a window,
the reflection stares back.
An enemy perhaps? He lowers the shade.
His tiny womb of four walls
cradles, nurtures, protects.
Ah, to smell roses again.
He dare not.
Voices, voices in his head.
Imaginary friends challenge him
to step outside.
How long has it been?
His fears swallow him whole.
Its so much simpler to hide.

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