The dust I loved once breathed fresh air.
(Remains of one no longer there.)
His spirit, soul: his secret self
had winged its way, yet I myself
still grieved, for all he was to me:
devoted dad – they guarantee:
Both kind and true, but laughed at death.
He thought that men controlled their breath
and length of days; that’s all he knew!
Poor pilgrim who was passing through.
This man I miss and do not know
will always be my dear John Doe.
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Author:
Blue-eyed Bolla (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: January 9th, 2026 12:17
- Comment from author about the poem: dedicated to my father, who died when I was a child.
- Category: family
- Views: 2
Offline)
Comments1
A lovely write about a father little known. Well done
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