Few things - poemSubmitted by The Pen on Tue, 09/24/2013 - 22:14
Your hands eclipsed the sun of my youth,
spawned wonderment in me
and held a firm adherence to morality,
but your stance was humble,
let and crippled at your end,
all men of God stood as stones beneath wreckage,
yesteryear memories passing to their kin,
who summon only traces to authenticity,
through resplendent tear...
many of my own years passed before I stood freed of that fate,
that galloped me over in undefined hours of undefined days...
a fate where grief and despair riddled
and where I sought appeasement in grieving and despairing,
but you were not mine before I was born this life,
neither as you left it,
so what despair should I feel when as unborn
you were not but a phantom to me,
a beckoning flicker of flame-light,
that now 14 years whence you are but that phantom once more,
tingeing the flowering dogwood,
falling as the autumn birch leaf,
drawn up into the ethereal realm,
to where she carries with her in hand,
the hand of he who no more eclipses the sun for me.
Scatterings of my youth the rains on an old homestead,
where shingles become softer greens
and roots lie dried-patchwork
beneath patchwork slabs of an un-shaded path,
and gold sweeps and dusts browning grasses
that once in my eyes brushed dry,
tears brought about from southern winds...
Peace and Love always.