Consequence Of Rattles

You gave me a baby rattle

as my first worldly possession,

Father

and I keep it still

in an age tattered shoebox

of a shoe no longer made

dormant in its silence

now

as I sit at your bedside

watching the creeping

fingers of darkness

eclipse the last rays

of your sunny disposition

I hear that rattling sound

again

in the laborious desperation

of your breath

and a serpentine selfishness

strikes me in the heart

of my conscience

keep rattling, Father

as I did

in those babyish days

of our first movement

keep rattling,

for I am not ready

to hear the final crescendo

and the last sounds

of your symphony.

Reviews

[John F]

Woah, this is amazing. From baby rattle
To death rattle…the reverse of the situation is remarkably well expressed. Really sad, poignant words but very heartfelt. Beautiful poetry

[Renata]

Merci, John. Your visit is appreciated.

[John F]

De rien, Reneta!