I remember my childhood

late nights with my Father

talking for hours

more Him

than Me.

 

I miss those nights

spending time like

its your last two

dimes.

 

The urgency of the morals

told in a confession of

one Man’s life, intent

to create a Man of a

Son.

 

The details always blur

as if it mattered anyway

the story of a young Man

is always the

Wanderer.

 

The last we spoke

it was of your

Peace in Life

as we drank wine

at the tops of trees

lighting the stars

at Night.

 

I recall the strangest thing

as I was doing my wandering

just after the sun went down

I completely stopped, unaware

of the purpose for such a feeling;

an uneasy glow from my soul.

 

The Night turned to a

new dark I’d never seen

I imagine my subconscious

beaming like a dream;

my heart falling asleep.

a feeling so Pure

that it takes years

to feel anything

again.

 

My passion has suffered,

and my apologies are genuine

 

Father, what is a Man

once his wandering has

reached its end?

 

by Michael Golden

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