By D. R. DiFrancesco
Crass and cranky,
Scarcely a kind word to anyone,
Bitter and hateful,
Blaming everyone for his shortcomings,
Except for himself,
Restraining him from achieving success.
Never without a glass,
Always a glass of amber in hand,
Served to enhance his misery.
“I’ll have just one more”, he would say,
The one we called Jekyll and Hyde.
The children loved him,
But children didn’t like him,
Too scared and too young to confront.
A wife living for better or worse,,
Traumatized into silence,
Who would he be when he came home at night?
A frustrated virtuoso,
Sculpture, oils, watercolors, pastels,
So much talent needlessly thrown away.
On a stormy day all was lost,
His family, his art and his life,
Sadness in a bottle his solitary friend.
Did the Lord,
Or did his demons call him home,
A mystery until we join our maker,
Destructive and demoralizing,
Living under bourbons shadow,
Souls touched that will never be healed.