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The Ones I Left
The Ones I left
were a whine in my ear
year after year
their images burned inside my mind
like fire
Frigid since the last sighting
Like an
inescapable mosquito, they kept
biting
So I decided to go back
to the nest I left too early
When I returned
I heard whispers of
me—
gone then back again
—woven from bits and shreds of rumors,
but mostly truth
I went to see how the scene had
contorted
How the mountains had
tumbled
How my waves had
eroded
And then I saw One:
maybe a father
(or perhaps a brother)
His cheeks were stained red with angry tears
The joints on his hands were rusted
Hands that once fed me
Hands that I rusted
(Hopes that I busted)
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