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



The urgency of the morals

told in a confession of

one Man’s life, intent

to create a Man of a



The details always blur

as if it mattered anyway

the story of a young Man

is always the



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



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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