A flaming arrow struck my father’s tomb.
His pulse echoed one final time.
The Earth split open, I could smell his bones.
His laughter was eaten by the worms—
his heartache too.
His wild imagination escapes in my mind,
Unleashing like an oil spill.
In my heart, his voice sings his favorite song.
A timeless loop embedded in my blood.
The sky was clear, but thunder roared like cannon fire.
I saw my reflection on the window.
An old man gazed back at me,
handing me his legacy of tumultuous spirits—
dancing demons, and radiant angels too.
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Author:
MA-Q (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: August 5th, 2024 19:49
- Comment from author about the poem: As Philip Larkin said, “They fuck you up, your mum and dad. They may not mean to, but they do. They fill you with the faults they had And add some extra, just for you.” I feel that blaming our parents for what they did or didn’t do is a vicious self-destructive cycle. I’m gonna take whatever lot I was given and do the best I can. It might not be much, but I can use my experiences to paint a unique work of art.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 21
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Comments1
Dark, this poem reincarnates the dead and keeps the living at bay. Nicely worded it offers a gift of hell.
That’s an interesting perspective.
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