“It’s good to have money and the things that money can buy, but it’s good, too, to check up once in a while and make sure that you haven’t lost the things that money can’t buy.” - George Lorimer
The topic for this week’s Midweek Motif at Poets United is “money”. Here is my contribution:
The Will
And finally the will was read,
At the appointed time,
To all interested parties
As stipulated to the solicitor
By the testator.
“I give all my tangible personal property
And all policies and proceeds of insurance covering such property,
To my son…”
How odd, that he only called me “son” after his death,
While when he lived he simply ignored my existence.
So I have my “father’s” money,
Making his other relatives sour,
Their eyes dripping poison, choosing for me a slow painful death
(Had their eyes been daggers
I would have succumbed to multiple wounds and an easy death).
The stranger who on his deathbed acknowledged me
As his son and legal heir, made me a millionaire.
And yet how poor I feel, when no tears came to my eyes
At his death;
When no sense of loss accompanied his passing…
He left me money, but no memories;
I have no photos in an album;
He taught me nothing, we never spoke;
I know nothing of him, I have no knowledge of his heart;
He spent no time with, he took no interest.
The money willed to me, is but an afterthought,
A neat sum to buy some ease for his troubled conscience;
Atonement for sins of omission,
A purchase of a ticket to heaven,
Where all good fathers go.
The topic for this week’s Midweek Motif at Poets United is “money”. Here is my contribution:
The Will
And finally the will was read,
At the appointed time,
To all interested parties
As stipulated to the solicitor
By the testator.
“I give all my tangible personal property
And all policies and proceeds of insurance covering such property,
To my son…”
How odd, that he only called me “son” after his death,
While when he lived he simply ignored my existence.
So I have my “father’s” money,
Making his other relatives sour,
Their eyes dripping poison, choosing for me a slow painful death
(Had their eyes been daggers
I would have succumbed to multiple wounds and an easy death).
The stranger who on his deathbed acknowledged me
As his son and legal heir, made me a millionaire.
And yet how poor I feel, when no tears came to my eyes
At his death;
When no sense of loss accompanied his passing…
He left me money, but no memories;
I have no photos in an album;
He taught me nothing, we never spoke;
I know nothing of him, I have no knowledge of his heart;
He spent no time with, he took no interest.
The money willed to me, is but an afterthought,
A neat sum to buy some ease for his troubled conscience;
Atonement for sins of omission,
A purchase of a ticket to heaven,
Where all good fathers go.