Woke up to one of your signs,
Console the switched ‘round consoler,
Vanish into the days ahead,
Be the unhearing loner.
Voices still call out to you,
Lost in the dead earth and wood,
Wondering how to save you,
Forgetting they never could.
Fleeing the country to shores new,
Your rope remains just as taut,
Tears fall as they soon realise,
Hanging’s as firm as you thought.
Only one can run from life,
Leaving the stigma far behind,
Yearly they cry at your grave,
Your flight just turns in my mind.
Today and tomorrow make seven between.
With passing time come truths unforeseen.
Revelations, contemplations,
Hidden logic of your soul,
Vision tunnelled by mistakes,
She-devil dances, ripped whole.
Broken in peace or in pieces,
Private fight with fate’s choice,
A futile fray with tied chords,
Never did have your own voice.
(year seven's annual remembrance poem for my father - Signs by Bloc Party was used as a basis, meaning this poem could be sung to the music of Signs).
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