I often woke while others slept
And crept into the den
Lured by dancing flames of mirth
That dad had risen to tend.
The glass-fronted stove emitted the light
Its tapestry patterns sewn
A happy contentment in my heart
For fleeting years at home.
I'd sit in the chair of the quiet house
With only the crackling wood
Wanting the moment to never pass...
If only it never could.
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