Walking by his wall of art he chanced to
glance into his gilded framed mirror
what he saw was foreboding a man
with furrowed brow and distant stare
with wild hair like Trojan Achilles
bending over his wounded heel.
Each line etched on his tired face
earned from all the years of abuse
reminding him that a farewell of
note would be kind for a
The years had come and gone
leaving him depleted as a reminder
of the work he had left uncompleted.
Nothing written of any acclaim yet
amused he did so many of the sketchy
letters he left to pour over and
The mirror misted over and beheld
a little boy who wanted to please
nothing more, a tear fell from this
old man’s one good eye and even
twinkled in surprise.
No protest did he utter for his
vision was clear this much he
knew that little boy was real
and written in small words
were, I love you father dear.
© Copyright Vincent Moore 2012. All Rights Reserved.