Words from the lungs of entrapment

not necessary, the pretentious explanations that preceed pieces of writing are damn ill. I've been away, here's some new pieces to cheer up.

You see, although it was kept quiet,

he died a racist man;

forever walking around markets

impersonating the accents of Asian shoppers,

and by his side, she would laugh.

It was his generation! and like most

he lacked the outlook to leave it behind.

I wonder now, almost a year after his death,

what there was within him?

 

Of course, we are to speak well of the deceased,

but I fail to see any wisdom passed on

from the man, except that I should do differently.

I can not call him unkind or deceitful;

he didn't have it in him, quite the opposite.

 

My father lived as the puppet to his women:

He met them younger, yet with loss;

he became a shell seeking possession.

I am glad he found it,

and kept it until his death,

yet I sit here feeling very little

as the memories fade

I carry on, unphased by the lack of family

with a few less cards to write each year.

 

The End

1 comment about this poem Feed