deepundergroundpoetry.com

Fathersí Day

Itís been a year since youíve been gone
and I donít know what I should feel.
Itís possible I never will. You shone
a complicated light, and spun a wheel
of shifting coloured thoughts. When asked
if I miss you I had to think. I do,
of course, in certain ways. Though tasked
with memory, to mind is called the loo
in which you put your hands around
my throat, above a running bath
when I was fourteen years of age. The sound
of running water still a keystone on the path.

But then I think of running to your arms
when I was nine, of being told that youíd
waited for me and almost cried
when I was late from school, and all
the rest of it, the bad commingling with good.
Written by Casted_Runes (Mr Karswell)
Published
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