Father

After all the time apart
Your voice still sounds
Faint and worn out
Like a relit cigarette

Without a hint of smoke
I could still smell tobacco
And burning wood
On every article

On every limb
I wonder why
I am the way that I am

I try to stand firm
To a being proudly rooted
In virtue and patience
But is that rooted in me?

So I cut down the family tree

Whether it’s the wind or my axe
The apple still falls