Poem: What it Was

By: Richard Luftig

He is intent
In his life
To make
This journey
His home.


But every passing
Day causes
Like pen
Poised upon

Blank page.
There are
No words left
To explain
Her absence.

It is more
Like ice
That settles
In for
Its own

Long winter,
Or her footprints
Left behind
To fend
For themselves.



Categories: Poetry

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