The Weight of My Hands

 

“This poem draws inspiration from an event that occurred during my childhood while playing with my friends.”

I knelt before your lifeless visage,

A father frozen in the stillness of doom.
“Awake, father, awake,” I implored,
But only the hollow silence answered my gloom.

I traced the coldness of your hand,
Once warm, once tender, now a ghostly strand.
Memories of confections, gentle gifts,
Stories whispered beneath starlit rifts,
Now haunt the hollows of this aching room.

In reckless folly, a stone I wielded,
Striking the horse-cart’s axle-innocence unshielded.
A jest, a prank, yet fate conspired,
And all I loved was cruelly mired.

The cart careened, the stream awaited,
The horse, the axle, my father-obliterated.
In that instant, laughter turned to cries,
Life’s fragile thread severed before my eyes.
“Awake, father, awake,” I pleaded,
But time’s merciless tide had receded.

I linger by the roadside, day after day,
Letter in trembling hand, hopes frayed away.
“Return, father, hear my desperate plea,
Do not leave your child to misery.”

Grief has etched its harshest lesson deep:
A mind impure sows sorrow we keep.
Trust is delicate, hearts must be revered,
And heedless acts leave spirits seared.

Yet within this desolation, a flame persists,
A lesson for all who tread life’s twists:
Guard thy mind, let thy soul be pure,
Compassion and care shall long endure.

Each action echoes beyond the mortal veil,
Each word and deed a force to impale or prevail.
Mischief, cruelty, or heedless jest
Can shatter the bonds we hold most blessed.

So let conscience illuminate the darkest night,
Let virtue guide, let mercy’s hand alight.
For every life touches another’s sphere,
And in benevolence alone does humanity persevere.

“Awake, father, awake,” my lament remains,
A refrain of loss, of remorse, of chains.