Measure by measure he is imperfect in every way.
Human and real and suffering, and stuff.
He measures up to nothing and he carries his wounds like luggage.
He stands at the station, expectantly.
He looks with sad eyes- into the abyss.
He bares the markings of his childhood-
Scarred by ritualistic abandonments.
She made room for her tear drop.
A tear that was nurtured and fed.
Like the baby she lost, enough said.
He flew high in the sky-
For a while- free to watch the birds below-
The clouds all around.
He fell to the ground with a bump-
Onto a narrow tuft of lonesome grass.
Then he entered in to a world of human error.
‘To err is to human, to forgive divine’-
Doesn’t fit and a fresh tear drop is expressed.
For he is imperfect in every single way-
And his story continues in real time.
My thoughts: I began to question my critique of this fragile situation/relationship between father and daughter and then begun to think: is it so fragile? My generation in the UK have been brought up like kings and queens. We want for nothing, and most of us have always had everything- to the point where we squandered what we had and wished for much less- to feel the sense of wanting. Perhaps big Baby is tough-and hard- and uncharacteristic in his role as ‘Dad’- to me, and perhaps my peers in the UK-perhaps. But then I got thinking about our definition of happiness and immediately began thinking how we lament a lot in this life; take opportunities that perhaps are not there and become sad. Are we too comfortable , left unchallenged by life? In countries where life is hard, their seems to be a consensus of smiles and a positive approach. Are we too far removed from nature in our home comforts that we want more and more, higher and higher, but travel further and further from out true senses- becoming preoccupied with nonsense in the meantime? Are we shallow and self-pitying and see a glass that is half empty?