The Yo-yo

I won't forget my dad. But when he dies
This yo-yo he once gave me will not mourn,
Drooping dumb from my hand as it now lies
Leashed in the limbo of the neverborn.

I'll swear it calls him like the mouthless face
Of rain, roaring down through the graveyard's grime.
Places I take it will be more than space,
Moments I mend it will be more than time,

But words I tell it will be less than spoken,
Its oaken silence will be less than lies
And I will wish it could be more than broken
And live the birthright of what loves and dies.

Speak, boyhood toy, your language of old men
Bid me wish your wood body could draw breath
Until I learn to grieve and live again,
Child of a world where death is merely death.

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