His Fathers Son

Father was “him”, 

a contorted string of tales, told, then cut cold,

When I was old enough to shoulder the hymns. 

Mother mused in melodies, that were fraught with confusion,

She traced her notes with care to show my father was no illusion.

He co wrote the genome he couldn’t cope to have seen grown, 

A seed sawn in sin, as if that’s my burden lean on.
 

The Cadences in her carry ons of this phantom faced kin, 

We’re wild with dissonance, 

they clouded my innocence,

I think, 

she thought 

I was him. 

I have his eyes, they say, 
I have his lies, they say, 

I have his, 

spirit, 

but there is nothing in it 

Because I can’t remember his ways. 
The man was a fugitive to the in laws, never involved in trials,

Seeking solace in gile, 

he knew the exits well.

Exit wounds swelled with reasons for his leaving and never knowing him well.

The cloak and dagger deviant who cut the holes in family ties. 

He left a home that taught the bond that only family ties.

Author: The Blissful Nomad

I'm a writer, Poet, Spoken Word Artist who fell in love with words at a weird time in my life. A chance to create is precious, getting to share what my mind pieces together is something special. I hope you enjoy reading, feel free to get in touch, any feedback is appreciated.

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