My Father, The Artist

My father was an artist
He painted and he drew
But one day, he laid all that down
Decided he was through

And though he worked in music
Arranged with mind and pen,
He never really took up
His artistry again

Except when I was very small
And he was overseas
His letters contained sketches
Of us – his memories –

His talent so profuse that
Part of it he lightly hid:
I wanted so to be like him
But he no longer

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