He’ll lay you next to broken glass, shredded centuries on the ground,
Place Him on a pedestal, so high the length of it can’t be found.
He’ll frame a picture of a man, with arms outstretched beyond your reach,
But waste your younger photograph to remembered commandments he’d rather teach.
Because he’d always rather be looking at black and white pages,
Thinking of things that only the Heavens would sing to,
Praying to wizened beards and old writers,
Than taking care of and thinking of you.
Author notes
Please remember that this is only my experience, and that I am not saying any other fathers other than mine do this. While I hate to disclaim my work, I felt that that needed to be said.
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