to rest,

there is silence
on you; burning father.
quiet -
on your skins’charm.
fools to paradise, you are remains left to
December’s barren sky,
no matter the season
to swallow. and these are words i learned to
recite.

now i have slit to pieces the last command. of yours, no voice
to hear for a lifetime. who obeys you now?
take to surrender a view of
your wife's treasures, and none you can claim
to have found.

to bury your heart i need my mother's guide. she was your
passports' secret, and i am the first mistake of tyranny
your eyes will never shut.

bits to sew, once more i drag along the road.
silent father -
of passivity, your body of hunchbacks, and tepid
waters.
i am of replicates! and the stench is a fear i
wish to smear.

where do you trance with
words unspoken. how warm of a family did
you crave. to pictures and laugh lines non existent, here i toast.

did you remember my hands building
stories?
your finger on the door bell late for
father’s duty.
to her laughter when exactness
no longer buries,
i toast.