Father

My narrow spine draws up like a creaking cold floor cornering confines, facing vacancy While my father is as a sharp rain that pounds down on my skin, grey tin a shed to my life and its sticky alcoholic stew like a Jew, cemented sorrow and in my shoe, a dead furnace It's better to be alive but this reality's hard to wake up to If my mouth was blue and wore blood's debut I could be viewed at least this day before I cut my father's heart in two. But his tears reach me even near my torrential eyes and they burn clean like acidic water's guise, my lies fall away like flies I have nowhere to hide and I've certainly tried I can only blink back without excuse and cry My father loves me fiercely, dearly and clearly, my disease holds no hostage he washes my toxic heart with cool hands not an eye for the grime, but for me, a child, marred by fire, his very object of caution but he makes me a wound set to heal, so I kneel awake in a wake my father's grace.