I speak
the cold
the sacred
turned away
the absurd
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my father spoke to me of many things

             my father spoke to me of many things
             of inner beauty, of a peace on wings
             that comes from being humbly blessed
             with  kindness, love, and the rest

             yes, my father would speak  but I,
             I only wanted not wanting to cry
             at all the gleam of all the toys 
             shown off by such silly boys

             And I'm sad, so very ashamed to say, 
             I would but barely hear, then look away

             I speak to my son of many things
             about the light within a soul that sings
             of love and a compassion that brings relief
             from aimless strife,  and pointless grief

             but this is not how he cares  to live
             craving  more than I can ever can give
             wanting those same toys which never last 
             almost  from my memories long past 

             though in the mornings, he avoids my eyes 
             at night I can hear his sobs and  sighs

             But I trust, I pray
             one day my son may
             speak so to his son  
             and not be turned away

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