When father left home,
He left with his face cold.
I still await him with surprise,
Winters have passed, so have summers.
When father left home,
He only left a piece I read hitherto,
His face was blank, no, white,
He had said, "don't expect me in a while"
I didn't know, being a child,
I just watched, while he cried,
Why he cried, I didn't know,
Why he left, also unknown.
But I remember, while he wept,
he shook his head.
The winds must have heard,
for the winds swirled.
He took his flight like the birds,
pressing needs handled the wheels of his head,
he zoomed out of the home he built with regret,
it seemed no place could contain him on earth.
I saw his face, it was pure red,
matching the colour of the spreadsheet on the bed.
As to why he left, no clues,
He left on his favourite shirt, blue.
Oh the day! Have you found father?
Oh nights! Have you seen him wandering under your light?
Make him lost on his own right path,
So he'd find home right in his heart.
For his absence makes me miss a lot of things,
the soft pats on the back that made me strong,
the comfy rest on his accommodating limbs
and of course the harsh correction, whenever I was wrong.
am3mm10@ptsolest
