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About This Poem
Dad
In all my years I've never seen
a face so weathered, yet seldom mean.
A semblance of a younger man
of whom I was the biggest fan.
A tired soul in eyes so hollow,
where he went this kid would follow.
Now he's resting more and moving less.
Is this what's left for God to bless?
Disease and age have beat him down,
yet no one ever sees him frown.
Mortal thoughts creep in as days go by.
What's it really like when we die?
But he won't dwell on that, with time so fleeting,
and his mind still sharp, despite the beating.
No he won't complain, why even bother?
My hero is this wonderful father.
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