As I sit in sunlight stippling
My hair in the warm breeze a-rippling
The warmth working its way into my cracked and aging bones
I whisper into my own ears
And bring to focus doubts and fears
Using that which some may call sweet, cajoling tones
When O when, I ask myself,
Did feelings forgotten on top shelf
Begin to fester, rot and thicken, turning rancid black?
The answer becomes clear to me
Frightening in its simplicity
'Twas the night on which my father passed from one last heart attack
Denied of signposts to compare
To my own life, the very air
Became as stone, and stopped its trek into my hungry lungs
And then I come to dry-eyed decision
To sally on without his vision
And continue upward, on my own, along life's twisted rungs
No comments:
Post a Comment