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The Last of Lines

The Last of Lines

I stand there by the old man that held my hand as I walked down the coast,

The old man that never hesitated to put a grumpy face toward me as I run away in haste.

I stand there by the old man that never failed in his sense of hospitality,

And here I grew up wondering where was this so called “humanity”?

I stand there by the old man that I found myself rooted within,

One, who the entire town respected that he was so ‘in’ to his village.

I stand their by the old man as hundreds of whispers and gossips fill the room,

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The voices of such ghosts in daylight not as loud as the continuous ‘beep’ from the Electrocardiograph.

I stand here by this old man that gave life to my mom,

Holding on to his life and my hand reminding me where I was from.

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