Poem 64

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As the air turned warmer around them,
And the tensions grew,
His face covered.

He used those same hands,
The same ones that had grown
The damned fool and the disappointment
That stood before him.

And the knives to his heart,
So many had that person known.

The piercings on the other side,
And the deep stare in his eyes.
Thinking, imagining,
Never in touch with the world.

Oh if he knew.

His disappointment didn't believe in God,
The God that he knew
And he has loved.

His fool, it was his fool.

And I could see the scars on my father's face,
The scars that I had sewed.
The deep wrinkles on his face,
Was younger for his age too.

In the bushy bare head of his
Black as I had always seen,
A new silver lining,
Could I see.

The cold eyes that I wore,
Was worn by him too.

But this time,
I think he could hardly see,
The watery eyes that now gazed at me.

The disappointment I was,
I never thought I'd be.

I was never the kid-
That they wanted to see;

But again,
I am not the kid-
That they think I am now to be.

I wish I wasn't dead,
Or I could feel it all.

But even now,
When nothing is left to burn inside.
I can still feel the guilt on me.

Not for the person I was going to be.
But for the guilt,
The truth,
That dad could never be happy,
At least by me.

So many of the world,
So many of those fathers,
They shall be glad,
For what their son has become.

But I know,
That mine never will.

There are so many thousand people,
Who shall obey.
But why can't there be one rebel?

For me that I have chosen
To pick up my flag of truth.

And battle the world alone.

It is truly alone.

And you must carry on then,
Whoever you are,
Closer to me must go,
For I can't belong,
In the place you call home,
And the heaven you are told,
As I have always belonged,
Anywhere on my own.


The Dead Revolutionary

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