What's Left is Broken

Father Figure,
Could you stay to bury me in past glories
That exist only in the stories
Whored out to us all when it comes,
When the time comes to feed the cold earth
As she chews, swallows, and digests
A part of some past whole.

So dare I say, "It's me" with empty lungs
To the unresponsive face of an unlit wall?
Should I care to mend what's been undone
Years before I even breathed at all?

Save my sweet Daphne, Father Figure,
Who hasn't been taken by the wanton hands
Of dying men.

"Are we to be pitied more than him?"

"Does pity vary in the end?"

Rise to let them fall.
Save one to save us all.

"What more is there to say?"

"Let's toast to the remainder of the day,
For tomorrow is an abstract thought..."

"With packaged tidings."

"Handle with care."

Cup the child's ears to their song;
That baroque air:
"I've walked neck deep into the open arms of the sea.
How benign we have made her.
I've suckled to my content and wiped my mouth.
She wasn't worth what I paid her."

Father Figure,
Could you bury me in the history
Of what you beheld as mystery
Before the unseen lips
Started selling identity in preternatural light,
Flashing, 'PLEASE TAKE A NUMBER.'

And dare I say "It's me" to every shard of shattered mirrors
To ensure my lips are keeping pace?
Shall I shout my name when the crowds appear
With my collar pulled to my face?

"I heard he was most unhappy."

"It doesn't matter now."

"Is there a now for him?"

(They shrugged, packing the mound with their shovel heads.)