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Teardrops Are Like Fathers

by Amit Pandya


Teardrops are like fathers,

Who brand themselves martyrs,

And abandon their sons,

As they step on a charter.

Never fail to return,

To the ashes that burned,

Of a house and a home,

In that boy’s mental urn.

Since he brokenly craved,

In the saltiness bathed,

And the clearness enslaved,

Yet, he looks so unscathed.

On the surface he swims,

Paddles feet on a whim.

But deep down where it’s dim,

Piranhas search for his limbs.

But the dad had to leave,

so his feelings could breathe.

Pressed and buried beneath,

All the false shows of teeth.

Learnt to see without lens,

Rose colourings cleansed,

Didn’t query the “when’s?”,

Made his present past tense,

So the son’s older now,

And has since made a vow,

To a little girl in crowns,

Of love he never found.

And he smiles when it’s grey,

Let the sky open away,

Because it only makes a new day,

A sweeter display.





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