My mother has since passed.
Her requiem, her dead muse forever trespassed
my father’s soul. But, I was too young to know. Instead,
adventures with my father overflowed my head.
His dulcet hue of grace was forever colorfast.

With sugar-coated fingers, we made our memories everlast.
My father instinctively protected me;  a fear harassed
his mind: I’d go down the same path that led
my mother to pass.

Mother’s days passed. No mother I could cast
would fulfill my life as my father did so fast.
Though I had imagined cancer took her to her death bed,
I have learned that some strangers should just remain dead.
Her requiem was of torment. My father’s elixir was I, a shadow to outcast
that my mother had “passed.”.