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Poem

My son, my son! He will one day put up his arms And shout out, “Play!”
He’ll scribble walls, my young aesthete, bang pots and pans to his own beat.
We’ll hide and seek in show’rs of May, and learn what clouds and stars might say.
He’ll run while stumbling with his feet and singing out his laughter sweet.

I know he’ll grow with every turn. My teachings round his mind he’ll churn.
I pray the good that I’ll instill enhance his power of free will,
And when he leaves he might secern what saves his world or makes it burn.
I hope his life shall then distill some greatness, making life a thrill.

I hope my days will still allow to reach these dreams I hold somehow,
‘Cause now’s the summer of my life and I’ve no child, and lost my wife.
If Fate my dreams does disavow, my art I heighten starting now.
I’ll also try by virtue rife to win my place in afterlife.

Remembered I might never be, most humans try this commonly.
Astounding this we try, agree? To endure like minor deity.

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