Father of the Alone
A poem by P.K. Winterway
The seed has spread, fed by false teachers and preachers
Preying and praying upon them with wanton will
To be still with lives and hives of minds behind them
Steering this and that way away from me —
And I cry out, hot tears of flames that are free
Of fullness, fondness, framed with banners of beasts
Clawing at my retinas to scar my vision
And make it so difficult for me to see —
Difficult for me to see that my legacy
Lives in the right, the true, the oak, the blue
Of a sky of possibilities, no limit at all but the ironwood universe,
And even then I still know no bounds that are profound.
But they’re gone. They’ve left. Bereft of the scars
Of my flesh, meshed with the sense that I’m senseless,
Hopeless, faithless, without caress of the touch
Of my daughter’s hand or the song of her sound.
