09122003

I was born holding my father's dying hand
Knew early on that the dead don't wake
Not after the wake
Nor after daybreak
Though day after day I did believe
Through the clouds of grey
He did look down upon me

With his heavenly eyes
Casket by his father's lay
I'd dreamt him recurring climbing ladders to heaven's gate
But he always fell back into his grave.
As the days fade and time slips away
I remember only that I once remembered his face — but his voice I will never hear
Yet his memory remains
In the garage of the house he himself made
On photographs and old clothes never worn again.
For my birthday my gift was death
And that sums up the person that I am.
Projects — frozen in time still remains
Empty bottles and bottles filled with wine handmade
Prepared for the day my body is cloaked in white
 Before I could walk
He saw me walk
And now I'll walk myself down the isle one day
I'll wear his gold, And his curls
The colour of his hair my hair did steal.
Even in life the dead remain
Actions that go beyond the grave —
All he made he made by hand
Collected swords mounted on the wall
And now I create
And I curate
Careful collections
For the dead remain.