An advent set in stone
brought time with edges smoothed.
The outlet leading home
had crowded with age old roots.
But vermin hands will callous and break through.
Tip the tree, let the wind
through to the candle,
flame dancing in the wake of the wind.
Would I find fate familiar?
Would my name clearly be nailed to the door?
Sounds reach far as I stand,
but some seem closer than they did before,
And lately I, I've had a lead.
Might I hear a way up?
My ears keep messing with me,
screaming arrival,
and later, tip the tree.
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