The Son of Three Fathers

The Son of Three Fathers In all the days since first I knew, I ventured to find… the me… that is true. Surely amidst all human kind, there stands oh but one… who in me will define, the who and the why, and the where of my soul, the meaning of shadows, my place in the fold. A man of great wisdom? A lass yet divine? A prophet of old? I sought to long find. But just as the wind in hand never grasped, the me… that is true, yet eludes the die-cast. Now penniless in spirit, no flesh to exact for the prophets and lovers and wise men of fact. So here in the silence, standing void of speech. At the end of myself, it’s within…. that I reach. To a place unfamiliar, yet eerily known Full of forgotten, reminders of home. Those thoughts of my Papa, and his gentle way. His smile and his laughter and blue eyes of grey. Of Grandpa and Daddy, and their struggle to speak, kind words that would heal them… of the fear to be weak. To witness this drama, played out in my life, Its strength, and its weakness, its triumph and strife. Like carving a canyon in rivers forced flow, So has it etched, the walls of my soul. From rage to a trickle as seasons prescribe, This river of struggle has shaped me inside. Now searching for courage, to see that long sought. The portrait of struggle, this river has wrought. In silence now standing, stripped naked and bare, Eyes now wide open, of self… now aware. What be the verdict? Oh what shall I see? The measure of men? Or a portrait of me? I again stand in silence, no utterance of need No bribes from the sculptors, no halter or lead. Only the portrait, the me, that is true. The son of three fathers, behold…..I’m anew. Randall