Home | Poems that Suck

He smelled like home to a girl
 who never felt that way about anywhere.

The deep green of the forest;
 sunlit leaves,
  crushed pine needles,
   and damp, rotting logs. 

The warm, fresh earth after it rains;
  buried seeds, 
   their tender shoots, 
    and mossy crevices between stones.

And the slight spice of musk;
 a loamy buck,
  the creeping fox
   and the parched air of owl's wings.

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