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A father, Guided in a sea of cheap windfalls and bided moments: Down on his knees, second guessed Into killing a little more passion: more dreams Remonstrating to be known Amid the flares of tomorrow, heaped against the sky Like a flock of birds shocked into flying By a small fear, Only to be trapped by the hunter. A father, With his son tethered to him, Ready to meet his Maker Over a deal with his conscience: It had resigned to make room for the Devil, Who was waiting at the end with a package filled with the finality Of an answer To his problem Of living with gold Without a warmth of feeling; Of working in old, Without the pleasure of youth; Of dealing with pain, Without a blanket of tears; Father and son, With both hands slipped of their reins on the years, Not a lighthouse yet spotted to quiet their fears-- They drifted to shores, From Vietnam to Khost; His father and he; Two kindred ghosts, On a ship to the seams, Ripped apart by the past, They lit up the sails, Took truth and stood fast-- Two crewmen spotted the ray of light cutting across the storm: a lighthouse, Or an angel, Sweeping it's golden arms over the earth: "it must be St. Peter", Said the boatswain; The chief mate, leaning over the railing of the sternwalk, Instead proclaimed, "this is Theseus, son of Poseidon-- Pantheon heard The supplications of the crew," In that desperate moment no rumor was proved. The father, Set to fire the wreckage of the ship, observing the scenes of a young morning; The twilight revealing a mountain, a forest surrounding it, and fallow land in open fields; The crew, hours ago swallowed by the sea, would not follow, Father and son to a house, Built near the mountain. A cup full of warfare Drawn out of the fountain, Held to his lips by an old, steady hand, The Devil sat waiting for the ignorant to stand, Face-to-face with his tyrants: Against the human tide, His face full of anguish, His courage can't hide, The Antichrist baited, And tasted his drink, Of marching poor men, And blood-thirsty kings. |