My father was a man of picture... Poetry
my father was a man of picture
his brooding stare
sharpened by the cold
he wore the stones
deepened in the fiction
of his shortly cutted soul
his cup was full of liquid tar
that spilled as far
as eyes could see
he had his vision of someone
who just like him
was never there.
Comments
Del Mar 21, 2020
Wow Franka -
Franka Mar 21, 2020
@Del, thank you so very much!
Jeffrey Apr 3, 2020
Nice
Franka Apr 3, 2020
@Jeffrey, thank you.