His figure is etched onto my retina, haunting my dreams as I close my eyes
in the darkest corners with my fears he rests in peace
the jailer to my demons, the warden of my mental prison
the lighthouse that guides me to shore.
He whispers
like sand devils to a lost desert wanderer
a thousand words painting memories on canvas,
tears falling down my cheeks as if to quench my thirst from the heat of this Hades I now reside.
He has been gone so long I feel like a bastard
one raised without a Father, yet his visage I seem to remember.
Did he have a smile like mine? With crooked teeth and wrinkles at the corners of his mouth.
Did he laugh a hearty laugh like my sister?
What is clear is that I have his feet but I fear walking in his footsteps
knowing that my son will struggle with these demons as I stand in the shadows
whispering in his ear that he is not alone.
Will he hear me?
These whispers from my father keep me sane
as I dance with the devil to the slow tunes of Beethovens sixth symphony.
I write poems in the hope of replicating his words
for the world to have a look past the veil of life and death.
I see dead people walking the streets under moonlight bright
slaves to the system that eats away at their souls.
We laugh about it, with the ghost of my father
I ask him if they see me too or I’m I just a ghost with an identity crisis.
