My Old Man
Dear old man,
My quill quivers.
How do I glorify you,
With only ink, not gold?
Oh lady Calliope,
Lift my soul.
A pin drowned in an ocean of words.
Guide my conscience with notions,
Dearth of words I face,
To sculpt my father's grandeur.
A shrunken, grainy face is all that's left.
Struggles, unparalleled for eternity
Spine bows, for the weight he bears.
A warrior bending his knees to fate.
Wounds he has procured,
A soldier indisputably.
Laments the injustice once and twice,
Yet, prefers seclusion.
No more wars he seeks to wage,
On his own kinds.
The past shoots arrows at him,
Bleeding eyes and shattered bones.
How can one slip such agony?
And forgive his enemy.
Yet, still, Calliope,
Though you guide.
The shaking of my hand,
Hardly lets me carve his story.
Despite your hand over mine,
How do I shape an epic?
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