The message is worn but it stays with the blade.
When I’m falling apart, when I’m begging for aid
A part of him is always with me.
I remember where it came from.
The scars on his hands are much of the man.
He’s a story to tell but won’t speak of the past;
Instead smiles upon what’s to come
And greets it with patient arms.
If this is my great suffering
It is only relative to his finest moment-
My father, the sage
With smiling eyes and the sharpest blade
That he did gift to me.
“Remember where that came from, kid”
Am I just like him? I wear his eyes.
The truth is I’m distant because it hurts to know I’m different.
It hurts to know I could only ever be half the man he is.
Father, tell me, am I doing right by you?
Dad, have I grown right into your shoes?
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