Saturday, October 15, 2011

a son to his father

The shadow of my father
drifts behind my half-drawn
self, as painful possibilities
of all I would not be.
And yet within that fragile
shape I see in hollow form,
the best that life
has drawn, from him
and all who went before.
My eyes must open wide
to see, that in the dross
of times, lie broken,
precious pieces
of the man I will become.

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