This is the place where he put pen to paper...
But clung to the wall, the shelves are now bare
All that remains of his words is but vapor
All you can spot is but a dent in his chair
He used to sit here, here he would stare
Years come, years go, an old clock keeping score,
He would scribble his notes, crumple them in despair
Waiting for his savior—but locking that door
That door sealed him off, away from all danger
Except from the depth of the danger within
No one could intrude here, except for the stranger
Who would carry him off to where his end would begin—
The poet, who’d mourned the loss of his mother
Would then, somehow, be reduced to a child
He would crouch at the threshold, and call, call, call her
Knock, knock, knock at that door; no more stifled, but wild
This is the place where he put pen to paper
Till the door opened, creaking on a hinge...
Locked in embrace, perhaps at last he can feel her
No need to cry now, can't feel that twinge
Detail from my oil painting, My Father's Armchair. You can barely see down at the far depth, but hiding in the shadows is the entrance door to this place, where I grew up and where my father spent the last twenty four years of his life, alone.
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"Not only does the author take the reader into a wonderful world where words are like music, ebbing and flowing with a rhythm that is captivating and beautiful, but she also gives life to her father's writings"