For a Fallen Father

If I were a painter, a plighted painter I’d be,
For a brush can’t yield a face I can’t see.
Nor can my verse reveal the cruelty of fate.
You took inspiration and left me with hate.

What poet hates the truth he must seek?
Though seek I must, as it is bleak.

My prayer for you, Pops, and I’ll pray it each day:

May your journey be swift, from the path do not stray.
We miss you like faded glory,
But run, Run! Forego purgatory,
And sprint past the line in front of the gate.
Hurry inside where your bride now awaits.

Fear not for those who you left behind.
We’ll do our time, and then be by your side
To listen to tales of raindrops to ride
And seers you’ve seen, who once were blind.

These tears I shed are not soiled in thoughts of death.
Tennyson said it best. Frost lied when he said “Bereft.”