what it's worth

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ever his little girl ... she knew her daddy, suitably the demons, the defeats, the drudgery and dreams (dreams, deep and delirious, as substances imposed) no year of hers was sans disappointment or broken vow his life - a Stradivarius without a master hand the edge of creative brilliance, rusted by tears … potential of a rare and exquisite temper ravaged by emotional paralysis and chemic parody little to redeem, and naught meant for pride still … love saw fit to hold his hand, cooling as his last breath left the day only her lips, the grace ... to kiss his eyes.

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