when I stood at my father’s grave
a poem
when I stood at your grave so small
there was nothing around
no taunts filled the air
just pure peacefulness
-
this contradiction
it seemed incongruent to me
to all its massiveness
everything you did on Earth
-
no flowers adorned your abode
as usual while
your wife watched over
everything you laid your hand on
-
every little detail you built
every little titbit you demolished
on behalf of the so-called
dealing with childhood wounds
-
your blood was always hot
in your cold heart
extracting false truths
and basing your knowledge on it was irrelevant
-
I hope you are happy now
finally stripped off this dodgy aptitude to destroy
something no creator would ever want
relying solely on the power of their own blood
-
for Dad
---
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About the Creator
Mescaline Brisset
if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.
so you want to be a writer? – Charles Bukowski
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Quoth
Unnoticed, the clock struck into the next day. Before my eyes, as midnight came and went, the words on the pages over which I poured blurred together. Meaningless under my over-tired gaze, they looped around themselves, slowly winding lines of text twisting themselves into knots as I watched, barely awake enough to do more than notice the change.
By Alexander McEvoya day ago in Fiction
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