Father is sad with life’s reality.
Heavy eyes and weak knees,
the burdens of work and paying bills,
one foot in the trenches,
the other in the grave,
mind longing for Erato
and her fleeting visits
after a single night explosion.
But early in the morning’s darkness,
when everything is quiet
and shadows stir like thoughts
in a dusty mind of cobwebs,
he writes, painting pictures with words,
creating worlds of heroes and monsters
vivid in the sunlight of imagination.
He’s the one who’s raising me;
he planted the seed
and now is watering
with moments of colorful inspiration,
the fleeting song of life
floating in breezes,
gliding through rainbows,
spreading through sunsets.