annabel inman Poems

In the soil of the richest land lies beneath a boiling frying pan
Explosive not like eggs hammer out a shoot
Not manmade, nor made of man
When the boiling bubbles blister through
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It’s a dark day, frigid and wet outside
Inside the musk of dander and smoke soar
The ceiling, little one sleeps, ill implied
By the quiet notions of grief endured
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Many days have gone by since you left; many tears have fallen since your death
Remembering you is sometimes hard, but not remembering you would be harder
I can’t help but laugh, sigh, and cry, for you were a comedian and full of life
When I think about you, I often get sad, but then I remember, you were my dad
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How is it we find ourselves where we currently stand?
Is it the things we told ourselves and the mistakes that we transcend?
Or maybe it’s a will of another whether we believe it or not
Either way it’s kind of funny to find ourselves in this knot
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