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by Mar 21, 2020

My father was a man of picture... Poetry

My father was a man of picture... Poetry

my father was a man of picture
his brooding stare
sharpened by the cold

he wore the stones
deepened in the fiction
of his shortly cutted soul

his cup was full of liquid tar
that spilled as far
as eyes could see

he had his vision of someone
who just like him
was never there.

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