Still Not Tossed Out

It isn’t yielding much result, I’m still living below the bread line, I don’t get a full night's sleep, I still haven’t gotten the desired reap. I come home after a hectic day, Behind a closed door is a gloomy ray, My kitchen gives me a cold comfort, Nothing there commiserates my labour. Not a star I see in you my father says, I worry when I think about you, I want to shut the door to my muse, Believing it’s not a worthy fuse. I pour myself into my art, Amidst my turbulent part, My father doesn’t see a serious son, He sees the least of his children. I almost tossed it out, But for the joy it still brings, But for its swift wings, It’s a river that flows to me. At night I still see the sky’s yellow eye, I think it isn’t a lie, The man outside may not be the one my father wants, The one inside buoys the one on the outside who is on the path to a blooming meadow. October 17, 2024.