INK OF NIGHT

INK OF NIGHT

Ricardo Antonio Garcia

What slice of midnight

falls and sweeps in the deceased

as my father

has been long dead?

Casted away rainbows

and illusions illed

his bygone forecasting rings

in my head still.

From my bed

in the dead of night I rise

and his tempering voice

is calling out once more

not trusting

of him of course I bleed.

What stardust

wakes me to the dead

and why should I ever feel anything

when his love

was dormant as a dead seed?

I do feel the pain

of not being loved by him

and I assume

in his weights and measures

all of time stood still

including

the Son who knew how to love.

So now I love in full vigor

in the dead of night

or during a hellish Sun

that twists about the days ahead.

If I always spoke broken English

my father never understood

the discovering

and amusing Son bending steel

with his mind.

The mathematician never could equate

the disparity of love

when he himself was a product

distilled by alarm.

If I am World and he was not

the spinnakers axel burst

and his movements would forever

spin in an abyss

which I still carry to this day.

And to this day

in the midnight call of his death

I love him so.

How these musings

give us hope that God survives

for the goods and services

that Faith provides.

Into the ink of night I return ..