Father who always stood erected,
suddenly showed up at mother’s grave,
and stooped lazily that day.
The man who carried head in the clouds,
forced to bare his soul stark naked,
on the muddy earthen ground.
From the ashes, I gathered,
a life carefully crafted out of sorrow
and well chiseled out of pain.
Midst sooty powdered cinders, I saw,
scattered pieces of her bleached bones,
Echoing several decades of neglect.
A voice ever so familiar “mama is home.”
an absentee husband today loathing,
over marriage that was never there.
A callous father, who shut all windows,
when she was alive, children left,
to wander, while she slowly slipped away.
Lone tear tickled from the icy eyes,
not enough to wash away the
the sins and debaucheries of a lifetime.
An unidentified grave, overgrown
with tall grasses, for it is a common tale
of a mother who sacrificed so much.
A mother who worked hard to,
put food on the table and while,
doing so smiled and narrated random tales.
It’s a father’s world after all but,
under the careful watch of a,