For My Earthly Father

You'd not grasp my fingers so
'til white they shown, though red they could,
If every piece revealed its match
and "had the world been all it should".

Bound hands tingle tight your clutch;
shackled by the bleak unknown.
Fingers work to freely weave;
stagnant, as you tighten so.

For your daughter with the golden hair
tinted like the scorching sand;
Willing she's woven fate
though her hands do error and shake.

She did not condemn your trail
and worked along in your endeavor.
With your needle she did weave
A chord that would refuse to sever.

And struggle wove our tapestry
though the ends remained thus frayed;
coarsely stained, red by blood.
Instilled our fear, though we've prayed

Yet puzzled, we are left with strays:
Inefficiency our course.
Any with our tattered quilted road,
Why fuel our journey with remorse?

And though the world did not spin fair
and trial threatened what it could;
I'll tower 'bove those tethered words:
"Had the world been all it should".


An Ep User An EP User
Jan 8, 2013