UNTITLED
by Jack Hriniak
I take his heart in my hand
and
burn into dust
riding on a midnight wind.
I whisper his dying sounds to sleep
and
tears burn through old dreams without mornings.
My father is dead.
Endless waitings out of sightless windows
and
than
he dies alone
under a silent sky
dreaming of fate.
A lone chord moves in my ear
echoing
between the folds of time.
My father is dead.