Will we ever know

Of his intentions to harm?

Will we ever know his mind,

If only we press our head to his?

Can the mind of the father

Be so different from the son?

Can the mind of the grandfather 

Be more fragile than mine? 

I find it troubling - this lost history wedged inside the crevice

Between generations, secrets held close as promises made in earnest.

A residue of good Christianship, he imparts on me 

Was he saved by his God, or his doctor?

Did they both offer placebo on a platter?

Whose was better, if only more palatable?

Was he saved at all? I ponder.

Was he forgiven then, later, or in the yonder?

Was he penalized for holding such brutal thoughts between his ears?

Was he afraid of their consequence when death's spell came upon him?

Rushing in, like rain eclipsing a sunny day

Did we ever see him leave?

Did we ever see him coming?