death of father

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The wind blows, harsh yet stale.Winter is not new, it is the same every year:it freezes the ground and the sky, it takes life from the trees, the bugs, the squirrels,
These shadows...  They do speak...  They speak to my mind,  Oh they speak, how they speak!     I know that they aren't real...   But their presence is known,  By the hair on my neck, 
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