Don't Cry Daddy.

"A penny for your thoughts", the father of six said,
his muscled arms full of tattoos and heroic tales,
"The Grim Reaper has planted a poisonous seed", 
her words silenced the howling winds,
the tea suddenly tasted bitter,
fire in the hearth lost its warmth,
the King sang about the early morning rain,
in the distance of that old gloomy town,
we could hear the footsteps of an unwelcome fate. 

A year of cold and wet seasons pursued their unbiased cycle,
a fireplace freely gave its warmth to the room,
a kettle continued its whistle for the tea pot,
the King sang about a fair moving on,
a mother of six sons were becoming men,
the armchair surrounded her delicate and weak body,
but her eyes still danced with the flames from the fire,
she continued to stare with a knowing smile,
content with the sons she had given life to,
the winds still cried to the trees outside,
another tear stroked her cheek and fell on her heart.

"Every penny I have for your thoughts", the father of men said,
his tattooed and muscled arms barely holding his family together,
"The seed is near full bloom now, its almost time for his harvest",
her words sent the winds screaming in agony,
the fire in the hearth gasped for fuel and air,
cups of Darjeeling tea lost their flavor,
the King began singing about the green, green grass of home,
at the end of the street of that old gloomy town,
ominous footfalls could be heard getting closer.

Another cold and desolate Winter was almost over,
the blackened fireplace had embers gasping for coal,
a kettles whistle faded and ignored the tea pot,
a long ago King was preparing his swan song,
six sons sat around a fire that gave no warmth,
her favorite armchair cradled her diminished body,
yet, her eyes sparkled with love and hope for her children,
our eyes glistened with memories and the dreadful knowing,
a soft breeze whispered goodbye to the trees without leaves,
tears flowed freely down our flushed cheeks and onto our heavy hearts.