The Drummer
Bedridden was the holy father
Whose legs could no longer shuffle.
In commiseration, I made them —
The callous hands of the drummer,
Taught his hands what his legs could not do.
The drums moved him to sincere tears.
The next time I greeted the father,
His hands found themselves occupied
With a sinister material
Locked firmly in his iron grip.
He raised death to his lips for a kiss,
Signaling a relationship
Decrepit and far older than me.
Smoke blew from his mouth and he coughed.
He turned to me to speak false wisdom:
“Some habits just can’t be shaken.”
That was the last time I saw the man.
Embittered by his lack of faith,
I often wonder his whereabouts —
The drummer with virtuous hands.
Did he find heaven in the attic?
When and who will discover him?
Or has he met a pitiful end,
His body thrown through a shredder?
Does his soul live on in the next plane?
Or was it turned to lifeless ash,
Ignited in Incinerator?
I often wonder about him.
