A Death On Romanticisms

A father is a hero
much greater than the sum of all
contrived phrases

and father is greater than the
touching things
we make and let go of

making up air or moments

made up revelry

a father ain’t a tree

but a piece of rock
that it takes a preacher to pick up
and call it sacred

without the acts of procranation
by language
a father remains fragile

as he is inside himself,
inside his head

without the hips of a woman a father
remains nothing

or null

flames of acetone, moss on a mountain

we thus make heroism as it is needed

and speak mythically of his actions.

Every father is a hero
(in the context before Time is realized).

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