My father brought bright laughter and
gave the mere inane and the mundane to the sunshine
Where we lived, all the time.
When he came home we listened
To catch the joy that broke through from inside
And could not be confined
At night enfolding me into his arms,
He placed me not like a flower at a gravestone
But as something full of life into my bed
And told me stories
Fresh out of the imagination oven and straight into
The dreams within my childish head
Securely wrapped up tight
Under the covers, not even the thought of monsters,
No terrors in the night.
Not one. Things are different now.
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