In a box he finds me,
With words so small - tiny,
In perfect order - place,
Longing for His embrace.
And when silence doth prove,
Solitude absolute,
He teases me with gall,
In white papers stacked tall.
Thus when his touch departs,
On paper, yes his thoughts,
All dreams seem open - given,
And desires, thrown wide e'en.
Father, brother... smitten,
Child-like art mine feelin',
Craving something similar,
Estranged by something nearer.
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