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Joel Carl Heinrich
Poems
Mar 2015
I don't know any dead people
does that mean I can't speak their language?
At night when I dream, who is it
that whispers in my ear--
soft guiding words?
When I was a boy I would wake
from an afternoon nap
and see him rocking in his chair.
But he's not there anymore.
Not even a shadow.
I've found I'll never find answers,
only more questions to spur me on.
Written by
Joel Carl Heinrich
Los Angeles
(Los Angeles)
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