The Sadness of Things

The sadness of things is
like the toppled buddha,
visible in her falling,
through the open window.
In the empty house
clanging doors stir dust,
like a broken hourglass half full of sand
trapped in a shadowy box of iniquity.
Suddenly vivid in a world of lucid dreams,
things were shining in their absence,
like Dad,
the man who would live forever making people happy

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