Found

The weary nomad was in search of self
piled, buried underneath an earth; a cage
surrounded by the sloth of different
enticements carefully arranged to make

the will attuned to opposites of grace.
And so it was his voyages were rife
with ribald gore and appetites that fed
on gluttony and greed insatiate

up till his ear was pricked by guilt; his son,
as still as smile, the kind that missed his mind
that wasn’t there, proclaimed: You never were!
The letter, loud as gavel, banged on him.

And still, protected by a flimsy shield
of erst-neglected rediscovered kin,
his arrogance and scant remorse back-talked
defenselessly through games his son deflected.

Equally deep were his solitude
and quiet grief when, afterwards, without
the influence of transient glee and vice,
the movie of his past flashed sorrily

like starless night and silent thunder clap
only the inside of the heart, the ear,
could hear with all accessories of hurt.
A boomerang of karmic sort sans doubt.

And, searching deeper, there were thankful senses;
music of some token song was plumbed
to spawn a genre, probably an age
and dawn of spirited applauding sound.

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avatar About Abraham de la Torre

I'm married to a lovely, loving woman who blessed me with two wonderful sons. Poetry is my passion, even if it's on a mood level. Like, I'm a geyser one moment and drained the next. Each outpouring, however, is a personal testament to truth, a poem being empty were it phony. I got the genes from my Dad, who passed away, in 2003, at 77. He was my most avid audience. There are other inspiring sources but Dad was the darnedest. Instead of miss him, I fill the void with verses.

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