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February 4, 2014
Each night I pray
that they will come
and tip-toe on my bed.
And give me solace
like once they did.
But sadly, they are dead.
I pray that they will
come to me, with their
deafening scream.
And say ‘me-owwww,
we’re back again’.
But it’s a far off dream.
I pray that they will
sit on me, forcing me
to keep still.
Or be my constant shadow;
tripping me endlessly,
when I turn around at will.
I pray that they will
think of me, as now
in heaven they reign.
If only the years I had
with them, could come
around again.
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