the sun will rise within your eyes again | poem

poetry

my old man’s old man was made of porcelain

ripped drunk bag of laughing gas

waistcoat cut with faithful dreams

stuck out like an un-tucked shirt,

the mind a wooden corkscrew.

*

my old man’s old man was made of porcelain

from pointed elbow to pointed stare

experience a blinded truth—

eternal for the sodden preach,

good conscience laughs inside.

*