Sometimes I dream of my father
wandering, as if he seeks
some nocturnal phantom in the brush.
 
The sudden lighting of a torch
brings the clarity of day.
At its base is a dark stone,
smooth and blank yet
familiar, somehow significant.
He drives the torch into the ground as if
nothing has happened and
continues to amble through
the featureless expanse. Each time
 
I awaken and rush to his room, only
to find the same manic eyes staring
back, devoid of that vital essence.
His words come from some
other place. I walk away from the man
less real to me than his memory
and retire to a troubled sleep
head heavy with hope for a flame
too strong to be extinguished.