The lost thread's stitch seems odd in the light
set by that paltry sun ruined so very young
and I can see all those raves where you danced
to the happy fried rhythm that mocks me yet
and spies sorely on the edging peace that grows
between the soul's vacuum and the becoming soon
of the black-suited man on the train at noon.
Then you vanished leaf-like into the autumn.
Mothers hide a hatred for their sons:
pain that was planted and Papa with his grin.
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