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Across an Atlantic

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Back along the wrought grass, the boy trod alongside
His grandmother and grandfather.
At their foreground was a hazy orange sky
Draped with magenta hue
And slightly below stood the remnants of
A rounded, rusty gate,
the only matter that stood
between them and the dim light of the café ahead.
After entering, the sight of
Warm visages welcomes them
and plasters a smile upon their own.
They were gone for less than an hour, but already
They felt that their presence was sorely missed.
It was only November, but the snack that awaited them
Radiated a warmth and an allure
That could only be truly understood
Within the context of a biting winter evening.
This was no corrupted homecoming that
Would resolve lasting quarrels;
there would be neither suitors nor redemption.
It was the only real reconciliation that I knew
and my only recluse of comfort,
Four thousand miles away.
Nowadays, I can only produce
The image and not the experience.
My finest recollections
Only manifest themselves in slumber.
The only gifts received now are laborious tasks
Which serve the purpose of
Segregating one from his bliss, his nostalgia,
And the memories of
What he used to enjoy as a child
Before he was pushed into
A realm of competition and pressure.
The grandmother and grandfather still endure,
Yet barely, for even their true health
Is uncertain across an Atlantic.
The only sorrow is regret:
That which could have been and that which isn’t
Infects the mind like a plague
And only beckons bleakness.
The only request is another experience:
To revisit memories long lost and
Trod as a man.




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