My father…
What isn’t there to say,
About the man, whose voice
Carried a coldness, akin to the
December weather.
His footsteps-
you could swear left
imprints, on the cold hard
Impenetrable ground.
And his eyes,
had a constantly hovering
Guard of beetle black hair
Furrowed above them. Like a
Permanent tattoo.
He stood ramrod straight,
And spoke in an untremulous way.
He was the dictionary definition of
“Head of the household”.
Then- mama found a place
Amongst the soil,
Six feet under- enshrouded
In white.
His shoulders slopped,
His eyes sacked,
His voice lost the arid detachment
It was famous for… His footsteps,
Barely audible.
And I learnt,
Even a mountain requires
A solid ground to build up on.
Without it- it’d crumble.
My father lost his solid ground.
Excellent write.
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Beautiful writing!
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Do you hear my applause? Awesome! 🙂
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Reminds me a bit of when my mum died. Beautifully written!
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Powerful and beautiful.
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So sad but beautifully written!
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Beautifully written. Full of feeling.
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Simply ❤️❤️❤️
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You never stop giving me goosebumps girl! Great job!
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Nice…
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Whew! So powerful.
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Its sad but so beautiful ❤
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