Salt of Sadness

Who cannot plumb the visibility
of a body severing itself from sense. Its
mind no longer sentimental
for overtaken by a sinister

surprise. The kind that labored to excuse
discovery as hardly qualified
wrong. It was only opportunity
taken. A test of mettle. No big deal.

It did not after all begin with him
bad influence being what it is. It
came to pass that criminal intentions
found their way into a company of

friends. And fun. And joy in holding metal.
The borrowed courage. And forgotten point
of no return. Yet in spite of choices
his, the option that he took was always

want. To take. To try. To thrive. In selfishness.
The first was a mistake. Lamented loss
of youth and years of aging with his sins.
When freedom came, he celebrated it in jest

and fell again. The suffering he did
not feel was borne by family. Because
they wanted him to learn that for his love
no journey is too far for them to fly.

The second fall was more than agony.
No sooner had the miles receded than
the threat of yet another relapse loomed.
As he scorned the prayer of his father.

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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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