In the Prison my Father Grew

In the prison that my father grew

The pillars were smooth.

Nothing relayed was nothing

Anyone knew.



Only from the edges the gravel aligned.

A fine scramble of security, of tumblers and barn swallows.

Birds squawked for their black horses in the cold moon-shine.

I was so far away.



In my jasmine fortress,

silvery-white lunaria left a mosaic impression.




The artifacts there grew.

Those I would later find.

Relatives who would profess to the intrigue and mystery.



Regret kept itself inside that lock;

trusted in the air of your breath.

I was young with that breath

upon the window observatory.



The monster I feared that the thunder might bring.

Of drunken smoke filled pockets,

destroyed and passed out.



Reveled in my adulthood.

Uncovering the cloth,

peeking at the edges,

a mirror burning my eyes.



Cold is the morning upon our fence posts.

Walking spirits we pretend to be in our waking.


I am your baby.

I come and go like puffs from

Someone's pipe.

Moments of undefined presence.



I will whisper again in your ear

Before too long...

Still here,

A piece of you.



© Sonja J. Johnston 06-Mar-2012