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Michael McGuire
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His Father Before Him
The same aches and agonies; disappointments and desires,
Handed down from the progenitor of the Earth thru every son he sires,
An object of Heaven's ridicule from postpartum to postmortem,
Trying to appreciate this beauty thru the haze of this soul stopping boredom.
Like his father before him he begets a son of these sins,
But he teaches his own forgiveness and this is how he makes amends.
At the dead end of his days; the few shareholders of his life,
Sons and daughters; friends and brothers and his widowed wife,
Doing autopsies on their postmortem-regrets and funereal-groping,
The devout with their better place; the despondent merely coping.
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Like his father before him he leaves the world of himself behind,
And they all wander in his wake with his make in their mind.
What were his living ruins; his stopped tongue can never tell,
The dead look so peaceful because the mortician is paid so well,
But I have seen the agonies that precede the mortician's makeup,
You were swallowed by the nightmare from which I can't seem to wake up.
Like his father before him he leaves a grieving son behind,
And I make a shrine in this empty place left by this father of mine.
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