My son steals through the door like a thief.
I sit at my old desk listening to him leave.
My hand is about to write a line of poetry
That disappears before I can put it down.
My son steals through the door like a thief.
I sit at my old desk listening to him leave.
My hand is about to write a line of poetry
That disappears before I can put it down.
Thought provoking. Sons come and go like shadows sometimes.
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Indeed. At a certain age they become individuals and that I think, is only natural. Thanks for your comment.
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