Poem 114

i will forever try to explain why I left, but I think this gets closer to any other.

I stand on the shoulders of my father
and look out on his success, a lighthouse
are we–watching boats trespass,
wake washing one another, his greatness
whispered white in the words of caution,
his lifetime a shipyard passed on to me.

Choose any, he marks, and sail to your fortune
by the waves of my trials, a while will fold
and you will be youthful and fresh
when you land there, the wretch waters waded,
your time still your own.

But I cannot borrow the boards of my father,
the broad sided banks would bare still his name,
I, merely a tourist traveling tradesman,
wiping his wisdom away with my sleeve.
To take from the fleet left by my father,
would slight me the right of building my own.

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