The Tower

My Father was forever pacing the halls

tripping over better versions of himself,

exhaling too much air as if to expel

the voices in his head.

His eyes wandered,

the air around him infused

with tiny objects to be memorized,

specters from the suitcase

my Grandfather laid

full of items to be remembered

before the closing of the lid.

Each one a test, a measuring of will

and forgetting, a blight upon one's character.

He cocked his head to listen to violins,

an echo of lessons requiring

the perfection of each note

or reproach from a bloody bow.

In his mind he walked the grim

streets he lived on as a boy,

sheltering his sister from

violent uninvited suitors.

They shuffled from house

to house, insult to insult,

until gratefulness and excellence

required of him a greater man.

Though my Father's ghosts were real

and mine merely conjured disappointments

out of the decadence he built,

I still find my halls swollen,

bumping forever into expectant ghosts.

Among them, this wandering man-

a tower, who's lofty visage, never sleeps.

Reviews

[Linda]

WOW....I know this tower..."They shuffled from house to house, insult to insult, until gratefulness and excellence required of him a greater man. " He tried hard to rise above it all, but his father did a lot of damage to the little boy that would try hard to be a better man. We all have to live with the failings of our parents and our upbringing makes us who we are. I for one think he has done a heck of a job being the man he has become after what he went through.

[Kristina Moulaison]

I just reread this. I did use a lot of real imagery, didn't I? It's good material. :) Thanks for the review!

[Kristina Moulaison]

And I agree, he has done very well!