On the counter
Behind old keys
I found items

Two small books
With daily verses
From the Bible
Which he’d read.

If you knew
My father’s ways,

Or had watched his steps

It’s still hard
To even consider
That real worship
Played some part.

Yes, in fact
Most other men
Whose beliefs
Mean more than riches
Would now find
Such strange behavior
At best.

Yet, my dad,
Though fearing age,
Taught himself
How heaven blesses
And forgives
Those souls left broken
As he fought
Through life too much.

For such quiet faith
In these soldiers
Born surviving –

Every callous act
Their weapon
Against details
Few will see,

When all circumstance
Means hell
While abuse
Becomes accepted,

Always losing
Constant battles
Over failures
Hate imposed.

Soon surrounded by
Fate’s wings,
They bear crosses

Until moments
Like this morning
Prove salvation

Even money
Loses trust
If approaching death
So quickly –

Perhaps sickness
Brings atonement
Silent converts
Can’t admit.

  • J. Pigno

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