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To All Fathers

My Father slept while I read my work,
My Mother, by the fire, listening with wide eyes,
Of what my Father saw or heard,
I shall never know,
Of what he shall tell me,
It shall be quick and clean,
Like a knife sharpened, just to cut,
And get the Job done,
Of what he shall tell me,
Be it of proudness,
or criticism,
His silence and soft, soft snore,
Is all that will echo...
 
I don’t pity him,
I shall not hate,
Even if he is the only one,
I wish could’ve heard my words,
I must have arrived too late,
 
Life is funny,
Like Nuns dressed as Nazis,
Dancing on Auschwitz graves,
With life sized Spiders in top hats,
Doing Fosse Jazz,
 
Life is cruel,
like the working man making nothing,
while the gambling man,
owns the whole steam ship,
From a bluff of a pair of 2's,
when the other man had stacked aces...
 
Even if I can’t impress upon the ones I love,
With the words I MUST USE to live,
At least let them be spoken,
Within the coming young romantic night,
Within the yellow gold scented early morning,
For as long as they are breathed into life,
Whether my poor Father sleeps or cares,
I live and accept,
I love and I ACCEPT,
For that is all a man can do,
When faced with the Devil pointing,
A double barreled pistol at you,
Red lightening making you choose,
the fork in the road,
Left or right...
 
I’ll choose Death,
I’ll choose Truth,
I’ll choose Love,
I’ll choose the middle path,
As a friend once said,
“The one less travelled...”

Préféré par...
Autres oeuvres par Robert Thomas Halliwell...



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