A Broken Heart
Not at my own reflection do I look,
Nor can I stand the sound of my own voice.
I never write new letters in my book,
But if I did they’d spell disastrous choice.
It’s more than rare I turn the T.V. on
And drown through endless streams of more the same.
Each morning comes as merely one more gone,
From more remaining of relentless shame.
There are no days in which I’m warmed by sun.
I find no comfort under midnight moon. -
In all of those, I see my little one,
Whose voice I haven’t heard since nearly June;
And though I will again - I dread this part:
“Where’d you go, daddy? Why’d you break my heart?”
2/7/2017
Copyright © Phillip Garcia | Year Posted 2017
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