From spirit to echo,
From father to son,
I am neither, and both at once.
It is not my place to say,
That in the infinite expanse of life,
I mean anything.
Yet my father proclaims we are the world,
And everything.

He does so with quiet clarity,
Reveling with a drink in one hand.
Oh, what a sad and clairvoyant man.
He speaks of wisdom beyond his years,
Yet with the courage of several beers,
And who am I, to judge his choice,
When he so often represses voice?

A quiet dream should be celebrated, not killed.
And I fear that spark is all but dying,
So in the moments of his clarity,
I sit and I listen, for fear of denying destiny.
He speaks as I, once did, and so,
I consider his words as beautiful prose,
Of death, and dying, of breath, and life,
I ponder them all, as forgotten advice.

A lucky little moment, of wisdom to be saved,
Speaking solely to me, and my glory days,
Where tales were once written,
Of dinners and of guests,
And betrayals in order,
To sort out the rest.
That was the first one, I ever wrote,
A poem, like the Bible, to a girl of note.
Not of love, and cheesy, ****** lines,
But an allegory for Jesus, and the way that he died.

And I did this with passion,
No fear, and no doubt,
It was a wonderful creation,
That spontaneous spout.
Such wordplay and wisdom, inspired by love,
Is one thing, I’m missing,
With no memory of.