I cry easily, now,
and, therefore, more often,
as I am old.

For I’ve been taught

by
scraping against passing years
like an old-Oak-root,
creeping through an old cemetery,
grinds against coffins buried in its path,

by
my blood, heart pumped through my veins,
beat by beat
in the numbing-cadenced-menotony
of a metronome-winding-down,

by
the lethal lump in my lovers breast
and the blood-shot-sorrow
in her lovers eyes,

by
the swing,
hanging from a broken chain,
one dangling edge
twists forward,
circles round,
back around,
above the tragedy in the play ground,
the childs blood still sticky on the concrete,
the ambulance gone,
its sirens-echo died off,
his mothers-sobbing with it.

And,
old,
I have learned-

Whatever happens
is the Intention
of the Fist
I am told by faiths law
to kiss
as It shatters my teeth
and crushes my jaw.

So,
please,

“Loving Father”

forgive my lack of faith

when I dare to ask
“Why?”.
Forgive my lack of faith
when I cry.