(A poem for Papa)

Some days, even happiness cannot hold the burden of pain.  Today, I crack into silence like a rock;
                    leaving a waterhole of words
unsaid on the ground,     my mouth, 
and purity of liquid,  on the hands of a dusty soil.
       Is this unearthly,  in a stream with the dye of death?  Yes, this pain is a dreadful weapon –
a heated utensil, blistering my raw scar.
                                        Is this the open arms of anxiety? Does the thought of living twice, fall or sip? 
I want to ask death,  why does she fire bullets for homes only?   I want to say:  death, 
my father’s body didn't fit in that grave,
but it worked.  Such cruelness. 
Dying crashed the seed of my father.
         Nothing I could do, but keep an eye on it.
See  how grief wounds the mouth into bloody approval and cuts out his voice.  
I am pushing not to think, 
                                               that this is how boys/men,   
become shattered overnight.  I mean, their dreams freezing,    yet, death took away my only gown, 
left me bare, in this sick house, with faceless souls piping bitter poems into holes. 
While on the other side, 
                         a blizzard shreds their hearts, like rags. 
how dramatic, the beauty of childhood, 
               before death brings the crushing weight of loss, 
as a boy decides he has the very eye of darkness, 
                                   and prays to be anything but a seed.

Writer’s Bio:

Sunny Eddie Crawford, a disciple of Patricia Jabbeh Wesley and a member of the Young Scholars Of Liberia(YSL) writes from Monrovia, Liberia. His works are forthcoming in: Kalahari Review(KR), Agape Review, Ducor Review, Love from home & Uncaged love (Chapbooks published by the Liberian Poet Society), Ngagi Review, Spillwords, Orange blog Africa, Cutthroat(A Journal of the Art), and the We Write Liberia website.Twitter handle: @SunnyEddieCraw3Instagram: desun101