The Truth

This life is a path
so well-worn,
The soles of our feet
weathered, torn,
Contemplating why
I was born,
And find the mistakes of
those not sworn.

Those, my parents, once
so free,
One of whom I can
never see,
He, in his wisdom,
chose to flee,
The burden of rear-
ing we three.

We, my brothers, so
very young,
They forget the noose
he strung,
Delicate knot from
which he hung,
Escape from hell his
nail marks clung.

Hell, this air, those of
foible thought,
Spread the chosen all
which is fraught,
Lies of a book hope-
lessly nought,
In faith and promise
all is lost.

Parents of parents
cry believe,
Callow triumphs will
to deceive,
Even when God rash-
ly bereaves,
Parents of parents
cry believe.

Truth is denial
so well spun;
Hope is denial’s
deed well done.