Papa is benignly sad
an opaque fog, rising then hazing his mind.
He sits feigning, eating ice cream
long elapsed unawareness in his words.
Drooping moustache drowning
into his morning cup of tea.
He is childlike – so they would have me told.
If for nothing else, he has ignorance on his side.
Reality should never be missed
when false sight leads to lonely persecution.
Lined face – like a peach, left
overly long in the sun only to be prematurely
dessicated into unwilling submission
long days, but a mere canker on the mind.
Younger men; oh they will
always walk me smaller paths.
Destined by no means ever to tread
your loving lengths –
of the now shadows empty span.
April 20th 2015