MY OLD MAN...

It cripples me to think of it,
Blinds me, deafens me, scrambles my wit.
It numbs my legs and unbreaths me.
But still it's all I can see.
There a fallen rose under a boot,
An old piper breaking his flute,
Stains on a torn yellow shirt,
A tramp sleeping near a pool of dirt.
My eyes ache, filled with miseries.
To see is to bear those worries,
To bear them is to live them,
And left will be a dry lonely stem.

He was right before my eyes,
There, like he was to be my prize.
Wet eyes obstruct my sight,
Even in that bloody broad daylight.
There, on the side seat of this bus,
Bent like a dying brownish lotus
He sat, immersed in an uneasy slumber,
Unawakened by the noises near.
His posture speaks what's within,
Tattered organs smeared with skin.
Haunting fears repressed with faith,
And coarse sorrows buried smooth.

Half his life flooded with torments,
Friends, brothers, family, all serpents,
Their venom took more than life,
And in life he only had more grief.
To see his dear ones laugh,
He kept the tears for himself.
And with these loving handful few
He made every moment new.
Scooping out pieces from his fullness,
Fixed our puzzle with love, boundless.
Now sitting there bleak and desolate,
He seems not like something to adorate.

I, son to this man here,
Stood like kindlings in fire.
This sight, thrust like an arrow,
Stabs my self right to the marrow.
But in all those silly moments to come,
This will gather my wits, hold passions numb,
And evoke the one little purpose in life,
To see him smile, to keep his treasures safe.