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For my father, when he will be on his deathbed It doesn’t matter that I didn’t know how much I loved you. It doesn’t matter that the boy you were lived with dead parents as if the crime were his and you, your memory shot, your only witness. Or that you stepped, brave target, into the path of another’s Death, who knocked you flying, dislocated your hip and gave the gravest pain to all your love-making. It doesn’t matter, I’d still have done what I have done: love wishes to be blind. For knowing now makes my love no jot more pure but only infinitely more sad. |
This Poem was Critiqued By: Dellena Rovito On Date: 2005-11-28 18:40:14
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.71429
Mark,
You're writing alot of sad poems, but I find this may be the perfect time.
Emotions are at there peak and it flows forth so easily.
Like ridding yourself of some too heavy to bear alone pain.
I question the 'jot'? what was it 'lot'?
Loving ain't easy but it is worth the price.'But maybe you think different
at this moment in time.
Most of us don't realize the love, and the value ofanother till it's too late.
You've had alot of sad on your plate.
We are all so dumb thinking nothing will change.
I've kicked myself too.
Good meditative poem
The sun's coming.
Dellena