At dead of night I rise from sleep
and dress myself for cold;
the years are growing old,
and you have faded like a leaf:
the phantom of my grief,
the father, I once lived with
in my childhood, which was brief.
At dawn of day, in garret's gloom
alone and fully dressed,
I lay me down to rest,
to dream of long-forgotten spring,
whose birds no longer sing;
that season, scarred with sorrow,
when they crucified my king.
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Author:
Blue-eyed Bolla (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: November 3rd, 2020 12:01
- Comment from author about the poem: for my dad, who died in his 39th year when I was 14
- Category: Family
- Views: 30
Offline)
Comments1
A touching beautifully written work.
Many thanks, Michael.
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