The Trees on my Father’s Hands

Poem by Corrina Wang

Art by Amy Ng

Warning: The following poems contain topics on death. 

Disclaimer: I do not promote or support any self-harm, obsession, drugs, extremely strict parenting, or anything that will cause pain to people. Poems are taken from inspiration through historical texts, images, and random thinking. Please seek professional support if you have any problems. 


The roots on my Father’s hands,

Slither under his pale skin.

Gentle pulses caress him,

Threading in enveloped blue.


The roots constantly consume,

Sipping on his essences.

He grows smaller and meeker.

Under the soft serene sun.


Tender blue and pallid shines,

to steal the light in his sight.

A stop and hesitation.

He looks at me, whispering.


His worried words, aimed at me,

stubborn and established, strict

and somewhere condescending.

Looking back, it was funny.


Each branch in his large fingers,

warm the top of my small head

Weariness lingers in air.

His lyrical warmth dimming.


Those long and paled sunny days,

Forged and underwent with sweat.

Trembling joy through steady hands,

he gave delightful wonders.


Water ripples on his face.

Many words strangle my throat.

Too late to reclaim thrown time

too much to communicate.


No longer will he be there.


There is so much to tell him.

The past years I have conquered,

His callous words I recall,

I trod through mud and puddles.


Dad, I have something to say.

Time dissembled both you and me.

If you had a willing ear,

If I stopped nailing your heart.


If we had both accepted our own blunders and apologized.


My warmth on your drained thin hands.

Rooting centred into your heart,

They thieve your remaining breath,

pulsing as they do as veins.


No longer will you protect me again.


No longer will you be there.

Gone is your tough-barked nurture,

Your persisting honesty,

the stability you brought.


No longer the soothe of your gentle hand.


Those ongoing memories ceased.

Those summers slain with winter.

Those eager whispers missing.

Those lost birthday candles dead.


Basking in endless silence,

They continue, fallen leaves.

They continue, dying heat.

They continue, withering.