Father

Viewed through a fragmented pane;
A town torn by an angel’s deep melody,
Penetrating the air; a tune more beautiful
Than a freshly picked rose. Tears flowed,
Cracking the discomfort, moulded inside of me.
Riven by the strain reverberating about the town.

From the door I watched and wept,
Lashes shimmering, tear streaked cheeks,
Tail lights; advanced to pinpricks; then away.
Nothing left except frayed fragile nerves,
An extirpated heart; left in the wreck
By a man of education and religion,
He left his eminence in a world where he cannot be.

At the last trial he failed, forced to carry,
All the branches of his kingdom.
Just as one had done before, he fell.
Everything to clear my cognisance failed,
Pictures continued to appear, as if from nowhere,
Images of a man and a train, flashed into sight;
All it took was a moment, and they were gone,
But nothing could rid them from my crown.

Memories became important from that day,
Everything I faced I heard in a brazen shout.
Treasuring the entirety of all that I did,
Appreciating my life, freedom invested by him.

Watched by ancient prophecies,
Pleasant homilies, chased across the valley,
Danced through the hillside temple.
Fires in the grate and games by the eternal flame.
Lost. In a ghost town, ripped, betrayed.
Pillaged by deeds, completed by one.
Materialised grief, a memento mori,
For all who worshipped at his side.

©2005-2006 Tim Peacock