Worn black book

My father preached from a worn black book

and always from a careworn heart

the people looked on his wrinkled face

with reverent head and crying eye

The book was ripped and torn in form

but beaten and battered it held them up

his words carried with loving tone

and advice of sternest truth was told

I walked in his darkest shadow

for in the night his demons raged

against his children his hand raised

the hand that beckoned God to the people

how can two be one and one be two

who is he that is not true

for greater imposter there cannot be

my father, monster and angel inside me