Father

A scavenger of the silent grave,
Who shuns the field and honest plow,
To exhume the ghosts that none would save
And bind them to a living brow.

They do not plant, they do not build,
But thrive where ancient timbers crack,
Their hollow, hungry coffers filled
By breaking every quiet back.

A parasite in silk and pride,
Who finds a feast in old despair,
And lives upon the tears they've pried
From wounds that were no longer there.