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■ I know what you're thinking, father
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I hear you vaguely as I glide
Down the steep memory lane Which turns your sayings into postcards I am succombing once again To all the people that I was To every I and eye that mark the length Between me and here You say your shoulder touches both my cheeks But will I ever see you truly Amid this plea yesterday stubbornly bleeds On my renewal? I stroll inside this black and white by Goya Trying to strip my face from rats and burns Hoping your touch will meet a skin more even When I emerge from the dark ages Within our two inches apart. There is a red mark on my forehead Going down Going straight Slitting the run that gives my spread A sense of marriage. I love you The words are as real as the sound they make However you're too close to seem anything but The evidence of your presence. I try to touch the perfect circles on your face From elsewhere divided. But will I ever see the whole of you With a sight torn to tenses?
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