The Funeral
Rifles cracked
A bugle played
I stood in the grass
Beside your grave
My eyes were dry
I couldn’t cry
My lack of grief
Was justified
In your presence
I treaded soft
Never knowing
What’d set you off
A life free of frolic
A life melancholic
Life living with
An alcoholic
Why am I here?
Why did I bother?
Simple really
You’re still my father
Copyright © Jeff Martin | Year Posted 2019
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment