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He steals into the house
Brooding memories of a home.
Dark silence assaults his senses
Louder than searing blame.
No stove aromas draw
Him to the kitchen’s warmth.
His lone breakfast plate soaks
In a sink of day-cold water,
Where steaming dishes
Once clattered with life.
His foot strikes a hidden lump
To reveal a small red car lost
In a race long forgotten,
Where toys and boys
Bumped and sped rowdily
Over a mother’s call for calm.
No gurgle of water
Or giggles beckon him,
From a bath stained
By years of childhood dust,
Where dumped damp towels
Staled like unspoken words.
Pink curtains still flutter
In a room now devoid
Of dolls and prams,
Where make believe
Happily-ever-afters
Were dreamed of and staged.
No sweet perfume lingers
In a room meant for two,
Where the bridal veil hardened
Into a hedge of unhappiness,
And tore away at the fabric
Of a life once joined.
No children’s voices,
Only the loud echoes
Of his memory’s ghosts
Now fill every room,
Stirring up his heart
With swells of regret.
Yet over his soul’s storm
A familiar voice speaks:
Shhh.
Peace.
It is I.
You are not alone.
And his heart stills into the silence.
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