I liked your daily, weekly, yearly cadence that structures your poem ever forward to our end days. As a single father, I know the days of the weeks well. Monday, Tuesday & alternating weekends are heaven & peace ever-elusive fleeing on other days. Wednesday (Odin's day) & Thursdays, I'm raped by Loki & Hades without my sun or Sigyn hanging on a prayer and the next moment endlessly living & lying. I'm happy to bend over for these brothers if they would grant me another Monday to make something even more beautiful for my son.


Your poem reminds me of that cue-ball singer, Sinead O'Connor. Here are the lyrics to soothe your time when you are far from your sun's orbit:

"A Perfect Indian"
A Perfect Indian is he
Remembering him/her life is sweet
Like a weeping willow
His/Her face on my pillow
Comes to me still in my dreams
And there I saw a young baby
A beautiful daughter was she
A face from a painting
Red cheeks & teeth aching
Her eyes like a wild Irish sea
On a table in her yellow dress
4 a photograph feigned happiness
Y in my life is that the only time
That any of U will smile @ me
I'm sailing on this terrible ocean
I've come 4 my self 2 retrieve
Too long have these eyes been feeling
Like Lir's children
& there's only 1 way 2b free
He/She's shy & he/she speaks quietly
He/She's gentle & (s)he seems 2 me
Like the elf-arrow
His/Her face/farce worn & harrowed
Is (s)he a daydreamer like me
I'm sailing on this terrible ocean
I've come for my self 2 retrieve
2 long have I been feeling like Lir's children
& there's only 1 way 2 be free




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