The BladeA Poem by Tate MorganI know someday he'll cut himself as boys always seem to do Mixing his blood, with tears and mud to each owner it ever knewDrake and I. Father son night at school. My grandfather was a marine who made us think he could spit nails Forged in the war, baked to the core a man honed from his life’s travails From him came my own father whom then worked sun up to sunset Driving horses, on race courses of a life I'll never forget
My grandfather had owned a knife where it came from I'll never know Held by this man, whose own life span had never bent nor been laid low He passed that knife to my father who in turn then gave it to me And through our blood, the dirt and mud it had bound itself to all three
I met Drake when he was seven a troubled, angry, lonesome, child This wondrous brain, who hid his pain in a heart that was brash and wild He'd touched my soul in such a way I couldn't help but feel his pain So unafraid, I gave that blade forging a link to my own chain
I know someday he'll cut himself as boys always seem to do Mixing his blood, in tears and mud to each owner it ever knew I wish I could have been Drake's dad so sad that I wasn't the one I hoped he'd see, this gift from me was meant from a father to son © 2021 Tate MorganAuthor's Note
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Added on April 10, 2013Last Updated on June 25, 2021 Tags: poetry AuthorTate MorganMarion , OHAboutAvailable from Amazon XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX I am a product of the Midwest. Raised on the plain states of North America. I was nurtured on a .. more..Writing
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