In this year, since your passing,
Your son and I have tried our best
To mend the rifts you left behind
When you slipped away in death.
We’ve struggled to craft a fitting legacy
So in your eye, we could stand tall.
Our quest has shed some light upon us
And cast a glow down darkened halls
And yet these chasms defy our efforts
To fill and heal, for good and all.
Yet still, we hammer at that granite
To true the ragged blocks you left.
This working slays my sheathing anger
But your son, seeks on, bereft.
I pray, one day, he’ll strike the facet,
Split the stone, and find his way.
I was not able, while you were living,
To earn that trust I longed to see.
Your son still struggles, feeling keenly,
That worthlessness learned at your knee.
So on, together we labor, brothers,
Striking now, to square our ashlars,
So mote it be.