3 months
-
the trembling hands,
that guided me for sixteen years -
the same hands that saw
my mother grow and leave you -
the intrepid fingers
that could spend hours
browsing records - your favourites -
(bocelli, holiday, sinatra)
that now dwell in the dark
corner of my living room.
sixty years.
when years caught up to you
the walking stick you placed
in the shadows of your old chair
you used to support the both of us
upright, and get you through to the
ever-long, tiresome days with
aching bones and unfaltering smiles
and none of us thought they would
end so soon, to leave
the walking cane, still sitting in the
lone, dark corner
speckled with a grey tundra of dust.
five months.
the last twinkle of your eyes
we saw - your final birthday -
seventy six years.
gone.
three months.
-
la
i wrote this in school because our teacher wanted us to write poetry. it's bad, but it has a lot of meaning to me. it's about my grandfather, who passed late last year. he was like a father to me for many years, and his loss was hard for the entire family.
YOU ARE READING
my poems 【 rough and unedited 】
Poetryi tend to write poems that suck and then never edit them. here's a collection.
