a flower for my fathers heart
on a cyprus hill when once his trail
smothered my footsteps of a caiculated risk.
his unresponsive cries
pleading for an autumnal release of conflicting interest
it is now,
with a heart as heavy as his blood beneath a swarm of crouching steel
he has relinquished his crown
in favour of a bygone day
two miles south of a circus tent where once a mainstream camel sat and pried;
with his pulled pork on his egg white
sill the virus of free enterprise
protrudes from the illusion of his animated stream
on a paper plates\' forgotten cold meat spread.
not since his want for the meaning of an august shower
has he dared to suck my fingers
and taste for real the carnage of my verse;
he has the eyes of a sparrow hawks bleeding brain
cradled in the arms of a vultures cancerous wing.
dare I drink from his spring or do I take to his skies,
and fly with the devils flute above the fruits of yesterday?
with my shakespear pen in the pigpen of my selfish sorrow
do I slice the wrist of my own most pitiful want
or learn to believe in the truth of deaths most silent love?
and live for the day he will gift to me,
tomorrow;