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.