what it's worth

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ever his little girl ...
she knew her daddy, suitably
the demons, the defeats, the drudgery and dreams
(dreams, deep and delirious,
as substances imposed)
no year of hers was
sans disappointment or broken vow
his life - a Stradivarius without a master hand
the edge of creative brilliance,
rusted by tears …
potential of a rare and exquisite temper
ravaged by emotional paralysis and chemic parody
little to redeem, and naught
meant for pride
still …
love saw fit to hold his hand, cooling
as his last breath left the day
only her lips, the grace ...
to kiss his eyes.

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