Perpetrator

I sit here looking out at the road, watching the lines go by through tears; I return once again from leaving my son behind to search for the answers he needs to heal his weary world. I think of my everyday emptiness, the continuation of nothingness… that has become my life, now that my children have grown. I look at the changes that have become you, my son, my child, once the laughing little boy surrounded by legos and dinosaurs; to the man you have grown to be. The hell you have seen, the hope, the trauma, the torture, the sadness and love that have molded and shaped your life. The world has become your mother, holding you close to her, guiding your footsteps. Your banjo sings the songs that have been written by your soul and has become the lifeline in your sea of searching and madness in the world When you look out from the fog and return to shore, always know that I am here, always waiting for your return, you are my little one, my beautiful son. Poem by Chris Arendt 2008 >>>

I sit here looking out at the road, watching the lines go by through tears; I return once again from leaving my son behind to search for the answers he needs to heal his weary world.

I think of my everyday emptiness, the continuation of nothingness… that has become my life, now that my children have grown.

I look at the changes that have become you, my son, my child, once the laughing little boy surrounded by legos and dinosaurs; to the man you have grown to be.

The hell you have seen, the hope, the trauma, the torture, the sadness and love that have molded and shaped your life.

The world has become your mother, holding you close to her, guiding your footsteps. Your banjo sings the songs that have been written by your soul and has become the lifeline in your sea of searching and madness in the world

When you look out from the fog and return to shore, always know that I am here, always waiting for your return, you are my little one, my beautiful son.

Poem by Chris Arendt
2008

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