Dad, I’ll always be truly yours: A poem 

In the kitchen, pottering around the electric stove 

I feel I’m chopping in too many difficult strokes 

The anxiety is unbreached by the non-deft cuts in a line 

as I wrestle with an unwelcome present; for buying time 

The onion peels are like stars falling out of my life 

If only I could divine, divine with the sharpest knife 

The flotsam of the current is no eye-pleasing logs 

I am pleading to the walkers of destiny’s dogs 

The devil’s editions of injustice, published, is an omnibus 

Because, when I think of you, Dad, my face’s crust rusts 

with tears for your sacrifice, and I’m still fearing the worst 

that I won’t be able to repay you in spirit, which I surely must 

I experiment with my stew, hoping that I drew a lot of dew 

like the moments, all the tender moments I spent with you 

Time is slipping fast, and there’s a past; how am I to view 

if the ladle of destiny doesn’t dish out something old as new? 

If fate can’t come with a cure, can’t bring me composure, 

if justice, to the gods, is not golden vestments of allure 

I won’t pass out on my dreams, won’t settle with the impure 

Dad, I want you to know that I’ll always be truly yours