My father was a busy man
He never had time for me--his daughter
Never found the time to remarry
I guess his work seemed to bury his past
A past full of hurt and pain
Something in which he dared not unbury
We scarcely came in contact
The walls of the big house
and the oversized door to his office
seemed unwelcoming and disapproving of me
This all played out true when he passed--
unexpectedly and from heartbreak
And with nothing in my pockets but fear, ignorance,
fourteen years of a broken heart,
And two porcelain green marbles,
I stepped out of home's threshold
and onto the streets of England--my new home
The next eight years of my life
consisted of regret, and searching
Searching for a purpose, searching for an answer
Searching for a reason to live
Searching for food, searching for shelter from the rain and cold
Searching for water to keep me alive...for what?
I didn't know why I kept myself alive
But I did, each day twirling my porcelain memories
in the palms of my filthy enlightened hands
Until one of my marbles slipped out of my palm
It began to roll slowly away from me
My memories began rolling with it
Determined to grasp my marble I chased it
As soon I was in imminent distance it ran...
No comments:
Post a Comment