Along with the accident…another dose of cynicism…
Another strong cup of boiling, black coffee.
So near death…the father flirted with heaven but drank down hell.
A balancing act of almost faltering became the father…
As if it were…its own entity.
As if my whole world were under a spell.
One moment a junkie to gratitude.
The next moment…a devil’s successor.
Over and over, living in his closed circle…sipping from his cup.
Feast or famine with the joy…and, the rancor.
I often wondered…
‘is there any new found faith…to awaken for another day?’
But when I marvel…
I usually know my own answer.
Nearing death meant nothing to the father…
Cures no moral cancer.
