To You, My Former Patriarch
I have no words but these.
Naught found in the tonnes of ink, scratch, and leather
drug along your Sisyphean trail to consume
the world and all of its knowledge, its material;
to puppet your Kingdom, O Dominus.
I beg:
gaze upon your poverty and own it;
the last morsel to which you are entitled.
Nothing more to the thief;
the remnant of a man.
Wealth
a stranger, a visitor
paraded around the manor
until shoes worn through soul
to your callous wounds
and blind eyes.
Did I ever know you?
You never gave me an answer,
only a glance of fear that I might;
that I am more than the bottom of your bottle
and thread to be spun into your permanence.
Repent
to that god of yours
in the clearest mirror;
I pray
you evict the bastard
behind your eyes,
so I can love you
absent the drab antichrist
you have become.
Though,
I never stopped.
Only took shelter
stocked floor to ceiling
with those I hold dearest
in hopes I can live
to see you surrender
to yourself.
It is
with love
that I write,
with anger
that I phrase,
with forgiveness
that I pen.
And it is with unrequited hope
that I continue to ponder you.