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Where Are You
Where are you ?
I waited all night until
early morning began to sink
its bitter cold into the coming day.
I made room for you,
held a seat for you at my table
and set a plate of warm bread
before your vacant chair.
Days, weeks, years
pass and I still wait.
I am old now
and my hands grow numb
with cold. When will you come
and sit with me, share
the warm bread
I have made for you.
I am no longer sure
that you even exist.
Perhaps you are no more
than a childhood ghost, mere
smoke from the shorted out
circuitry of another time,
the hard to let go notion
of a lost sublime,
something precious
I left behind.
Copyright ©
Paul Willason
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