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My Dad: The Navigational Beacon
It stands where the map dissolves,
at the edge where certainty falters—
a hollow bell against the wind,
a watchman staring through the salt-thick dark.
The mariner knows its miasmic vow:
a pulse amid the blank expanse,
a promise bound in lantern flame
that fractures the silence of the tide.
History sleeps in its iron bones,
the breath of lost voyages pressed into its waiting ribs;
storm-worn, steady,
indifferent to regret.
And yet—
it is more than an artifact of duty,
more than the caution of cautious men.
It is a voice for the adrift,
a tether to shore when the stars are blind,
the certainty that something watches—
even as the waves conspire,
even as the wind conspires,
even as the world turns away—
He does not.
I miss you, Dad…
Copyright ©
Mickey Grubb
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