A Prism Prison

Cloistered by her unwritten word,
Made horrendous as a silent bell,
I scrawl lines to her, but has she heard
My prayer wherever she doth dwell?
 
Tenuous is life, color it red,
For the pain and suffering we bear.
Days march on no matter what's ahead,
Tears of joy or glee, we are its heir.
 
I, the father, find it harder still,
Experience has not prepared me
To unearth a ghost-like fear that chills,
Add my heart and soul and that makes three.
 
I honestly sluice my soul for truth,
Not hide from skeletons I expose.
I cringe not at my findings as sleuth,
Aware that I am not her hero.
 
These months of separation cause pain,
And as I lie among the refuse
Of past sins which I wear like a chain,
 That flays and leaves such hideous bruise.
 
My pen shan't be still, yea, it must write,
Questions have to be posed and then purged.
I'll n'er dream sweet dreams into the night,
Lo, nightmares torture me in their dirge.
 
©February 26, 2017 / Jerry Pat Bolton