Promise to Stone

8 Comments

  • Desmotti
  • The wraith is but sadness in mortal form. It haunts to hunt, and hunts to feed. It cannot feed on any emotion. This is its pain. for emotion is not segregated it is fealt, and to feel is warmth.

Promise to Stone

Little one with eyes so bright...
I'll stay up with you in the night...
to hug and hold you when the fire...
makes you sad...and keeps you tired...

Little one my rock my child...
my little me...who runs so wild...
I love your passion and happy hopes...
your laugh and fun words help me cope....

Little one my crown of jewels...
I'll fight the monsters in your room...
I'll slay the dragons...slice em down...
and warn the rest my voice full boom...

Little one I am your father...
I'll lift you when your legs they fail
to give you water...a gift of life...
I'll dig a thousand mile deep well...

To make sure that your bellies full...
to make sure that you've toys for laughter...
to make sure that you know your loved...
to have the good...for you I'll capture.

Little one I'll fail you not...
I cannot fail my little rock...
through storm and nightmare...
we'll face together
Count on me son...I am your father.

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Maat commented on Promise to Stone

07-13-2010

a father 'affections most nobly portrayed... loved it

Musicmynded1 commented on Promise to Stone

03-11-2010

My feelings to my kids as well Des... and even now still when their off to college

earthly commented on Promise to Stone

02-04-2010

so comforting-Our Father provides such hope if we look to him...Earthly

DeepEclipse commented on Promise to Stone

01-12-2010

You are a good shelter, keeping one from being left out to burn in the sun. Surely he will treasure you more for it. A father's love for his son is irreplaceable. It will make him a stronger man for it. Good expression of sincere emotion.

CailOfTarnak commented on Promise to Stone

01-08-2010

Uncle nice poem you have put a lot of emotion into it I hope Stone is doing better

In science one tries to tell people, in such a way as to be understood by everyone, something that no one ever knew before. But in poetry, it's the exact opposite.

Franz Kafka (1883-1924) Czech writer.

Desmotti’s Poems (25)