Father
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I was always wrongTo silence myself where I belong.As you are far behindIn each teardrop that fades,As all rain is never savedFrom its fall, its decline.You did not want to – Want to die,Living upon the crying smile.You were sincere in each word,While winter kept you thirstingTo know if I was listening. I do listen,Smiling
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I holdWhat seems to beTime’s cruel carelessness.A hand that masks itselfUnder coats,Though wasn’t the cold to trembleHis fingers,But fear. AgeWants him to moveTo a placeWhere a future can proveEverlasting.A broken man,A hollow manWho stains the air with his stare,Sunken in sickness. LoveMoves him to a placeWhere slowness breathes for him,Fading him,Keeping him in the armsOf
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TirednessSpeaks more upon the sunken lips,Than the grave to welcome himUnder the iron that has stilledLike the halting train.For I feel no pulseTo take him onPast the feathers in his eyes,Past the weather on his cheeks.For all peace,With every morsel of his ageHas lasted himUntil breathing momentsCome undone. LakesWith canoes to ripple us pastCertain moments
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Blinded, as I amBy the streams of your brightest lightOf a Heaven I knowYour screams cannot be.It is a pain I forgetBefore the face of a gracing love.Though, a painI will not deplete myself of,In recollection of arms I knew as a childWrapped around me forThe protection I had adored. I will not obey darkness,I
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Who do you grieve for, When the night has no stars? When the ice of the silent universe Encompasses the space in your mouth, For whom do you scream? He died To your satisfaction. He bled For your wounds. He left, With the wetness of your appetite, Still remaining to dine. I once was trapped
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Deep in my past Where horses ride Over roadways and train tracks, I fall away Into memories Full of the same shelter, In how I gave love To anyone else. His arms Brought my misfortune to fortune, And in what I learned Was that grief is but a symbol To never grow beyond To something
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Your spirit resides in turbulence,But, a moth rests itself atop your temple,A grave sits before you, idle and waiting.There’s a place in Heaven, for you,Near the place Christ left, for you. There’s evil that runs so free,Seemingly freer than love, itself.Why do you find yourself in comfort,During when your son has shown sides to him,That
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Father, have you lifted,Away from the pain I now share,With a world so very bare? It is because I have done as you asked,And cared for another among a divisionOf untimely selfishness. Is it wrong to despise someone,Who loves only themselves?This world has no promise of love. And yet, I make what I canFrom the
Modern Romanticism 