Dear Papa

Dear Papa,

There’s something about your hands;

Something you can’t explain entirely,

But can teach.

A magical impulsion so undefined,

At times society gets it wrong.

And yet, you dare not switch.

At dusk, it’s another day to rumble through hurdles;

With a spirit three quarters full,

And the will of a warrior,

The battle rages on.

At dawn, down witted and bruised,

You still turn your frown

And wear your crown.

Nobody can testify to the harsh winds blown at you,

But you.

And yet, for every mile

There’s a never-ending smile.

Drops of your sweat may be tarnished,

But the work of your hands will

forever be cherished.

-ThiWordknight-