A Stroll of Variance
What has become of my lovely boy, Jason?My son, my Jason, where has that boy gone?
A gun, and a moment without breath, is all't took
And quite overnight, my Jason's a crook
The guys from the yard could have followed me easy
All of my tears, each that falls makes me queasy
Have streamed me a track of my past where I've walked
There are so many, a small brig could have docked
I fuddle my fingers in the pocket that's torn
My trousers are old, from the work they've been worn
The cold scales up from my waist to my neck
Everything else is in status of wreck
My moon glows with sympathy high on its watch
Its watch made of cloud made of dark and gray blotch
A blotch on the heaven that has closed its eyes
A heaven that holds not his son in the skies
Jason was King, or so the boys named
The same group of boys that would claim all the blame
A frame was nailed high with a shot of his face
A face which was shot and then lost with no trace
A father is crushed with a horrified fizz
Of his Jason in dirt, or wherever he is
Knowing my Jason since he was a kid
And nobody knew him like his father did
It seems that my trail of tears is at cease
I stand on my porch and I stand as I please
I'll go in the house when I'm sure I am able
To pick up the briefcase of cash on the table
Poetry by weirdzarun
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Written on 2006-12-22 at 09:04
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Kathy Lockhart |
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