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Fathers and Sons

Writers Envy

Birthed in promises unspoken, on a bed of dreams and ghosts,
I grasped the pleading in his heart, but faltered at the post;
Desperation’s embattled prayer in a father’s grasp for fate,
For all of that I could have done it’s too little and too late.

Hiding from the ancient child weeping alone inside my head,
Looking down at no-one, looking up at those ahead;
Unprepared and unable, wet with shame for shoes unlaced,
For all of that I could have done it’s too little and too late.

Of losses deep and wide, solidly ingrained with paralyzing fear,
Knots that twist and turn and writhe while throwing up cold tears;
Walking in weakness, taunted endlessly by demons in my face,
For all of that I could have done it’s too little and too late.

Catch the ball, don’t turn away, keep your glove upon the ground,
Gritting teeth and pounding…

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She was afraid of him. Afraid of falling for him.
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