You worked at your lathe,
\nmade tools for the war,
\nrode your bicycle
\nto the cold walls of the factory,
\nthen played your guitar.
\nNow,
\nthe tide is out.
\nAll the bones of our lives
\nare exposed.
\nSea fans lie limp on the rocks.
\nWe are becoming rock, water and air.
\nDisappearing without a voice.<\/p>\n
I listen for the strings
\nthat lifted up your songs.
\nOnly now,
\ndo I understand
\nthe love of your eyes.
\nThe water of sadness.
\nI listen,
\nand the strings are broken.
\nThe guitar split in two
\nlike a heart that failed.
\nFather,
\nI listen.
\nI can hear you sing.
\nThe strings are joined
\nbetween us.<\/p>\n
I kiss your eyes
\nand taste the sea.
\nWe are becoming invisible.
\nFather,
\nwho I love,
\nplay your guitar.
\nNot all the songs are gone.
\nI will listen.
\nI will sing them.
\nWrite down the notes.
\nTell others,
\nwho you were.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
You worked at your lathe, made tools for the war, rode your bicycle to the cold walls of the factory, then played your guitar. Now,…<\/p>\n