Thursday, March 3, 2011


Gregory’s dead and gone away,
I begged him, “Please, oh won’t you stay?
You’ve been here so long, yet I knew you not,
We could have been friends, but we only fought.”

His spirit was fading, bland and old;
A face creviced by wrinkles, his shy eyes cold.
Turning slowly, he shot me a frown,
A vague voice began to float slowly around.

It bounced of the walls, waves subtle but quaint.
The voice of a man, held down by restraints.
It said, “I’m bided away, for my time is done,
You must move along and live your life son.”

For my father Gregory, was a bad one at that,
Never ever there for me, on the side line he sat.
But a lifetime journey without an old man;
Left me in tarnish, a country with no land.

It’s a sad fact to know, we don’t care until it’s gone;
And we think we can thrive, alone we can go one.
But a father and his son should be as close as can be,
For just one alone is an eye that cannot see.

As his spirit was being pulled away, strapped in chain;
I reached out with my hand, calling his name.
My hand passed through the chilled vapors of his body,
But the chains I could grasp, seemed such an oddity.
Mark Simmons

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1/22/2021 2:27:47 PM #