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Son to Father

The air is sometimes foul

The air is sometimes fresh

But the instruction is always to breathe

The man in my life

Left without saying farewell

He went as if he would return

I'm still waiting

His return but his silhouette

Never entered the doorway

His scent crept away with time

His place at the table is vacant and undisturbed

Everything is left the way he liked

No one dared sit in his seat at the head of the table

I won't allow it to happen

Our only time-honored memory is the day he left

The same day his hands stop being safe

Within arm's length of a ringing ear

I can't seem to pass that day

I'm starting to fit his clothes

And he is yet to knock or call

Although we share the same space

I guess he ain't coming back

The Novice Poet

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