deepundergroundpoetry.com
On the Gradual Death of a Father
Death comes in the winter
When all is grey & white & cold
Whether stealthily or raucously
Gnawing or pouncing
Prowling for entrails
Frigid
Final
Leaving empty beds and empty arms
Reminders of the empty holes
In the long-empty hearts
It’s icy fingers creep along the soul
Waking long-dead musings
…they buried them in the spring…
Yet for him
No grave will be dug
For some winters never End.
When all is grey & white & cold
Whether stealthily or raucously
Gnawing or pouncing
Prowling for entrails
Frigid
Final
Leaving empty beds and empty arms
Reminders of the empty holes
In the long-empty hearts
It’s icy fingers creep along the soul
Waking long-dead musings
…they buried them in the spring…
Yet for him
No grave will be dug
For some winters never End.
Published 7th Dec 2021
| Edited 21st Feb 2025
Author's Note
I wrote this after seeing my father being eaten from the inside out by cancer. That winter I knew we were in the death watch. The first line was borrowed from a friend & poet with permission.
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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