For Fathers That Do Not Speak

How time has left its mark on you father.
Your splotched skin tells of truths left untold,
Awakening you in the early morning against your will,
Your skin has taken control of your biological clock
And has left you silencing the very thing which wakes you.
An upbringing of overbearing not-tolds
Leaves you with everything to tell,
But no way to voice it.

Your skin one day will pass
And the rest of you will
Unabidingly follow.
The many things left unsaid will seep from your pores
Into the loamy soil about you
And flowers will burst forth color and delight never before seen
On the very energies which you never released.

And slowly, ever so gradually,
These too will pass
And your stony grave will be inscribed
With the skins of so many things left

Unsaid.