my father’s way was one that i
had trouble taking by;
for many were his silences,
but still some time to cry

my father’s way went through the wood
and into clouded lands,
upon a path of ancient dirt,
made out of shifting sands

there’s permanence among the trees,
there’s trouble, too, as well;
the rebel whispers of his dreams
before he comes to yell

my father’s way seemed so resigned;
to stay within the good —
so much i saw, and chattered through,
but never understood —

i never
understood