You are a shadow cast by nothing,
a lost god to a crumbling shrine,
a forgotten law no one abides,
the dying breath of a senile king.
You are there in each poem I write,
a ticking metronome no one hears,
a constant reminder of the passing years,
a distant melody I still can’t find.
Your absence, father, is oft’ passed through
by men who have children of their own.
They hold me and say I’m not alone
and then leave me again, just like you.
But other men are easier to miss
than remembering you, writing this.