a flower for my fathers heart

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;