China blue irises,
Once filled with innocence,
Lacking vibrance, isolated and lost.
Recalling his father's
Arthritic hand,
Skin like crumpled paper,
Meandering towards him.
He was 6,
Even 25 years on,
Memories lingered stubbornly.
His father assured him
No one would find out.
The nights were the worst.
Desperate to hear
The cries of others, revisiting
The room he slept in
Back in 1984.
It still hadn't changed.
Desperation
Saturated the air.
Tear-stained face,
Blank and cold.
His father died years ago,
Yet he still felt his presence.
Will he ever be free?
Paranoia-filled mornings
At breakfast, steely looks,
The pattern kept being relived.
Each time he forgave him,
His trust still broken,
He wet himself.
His father's hand clenched.
Slapped face,
Eternal reminders manifested,
Long after the redness faded.
(c) NZ 2009.

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