The Orphan's Way

Ferry me home. A Guerrilla Literature poem conceptualized, written and published 6/30/25 - 7/1/25.

Photo by Michał Parzuchowski on Unsplash

Ferry me.
Carry me on cigar smoke across seas and singalongs.
Father, let me lie by your side and listen
as the waves crash down outside on the lawn.
It’s been years since she left us broken,
and less so since you ended up bent.
Another drink from the bottle old man?
And I wonder where your spirit went.

I beg of you now to ferry me,
to a place on a shore where I'm safe.
Your arms strong enough they can carry me,
a million years away from your hate.
One day I was the top priority,
I think that was the day I was born.
Then I became a warfare commodity,
when your love above me went wrong.

Do you still sing those songs for me, Dad?
Or have they all been given to her?
I promise I'll do the best I can, Dad,
if you're going to gamble then bet on my word.
You once called my voice that of an angel,
the most beautiful thing you’d ever heard.
But I’ve played every hand just to lose you,
and I don’t think that you know my worth.

So ferry me now, if you ever meant to,
across the ache that her absence made.
There’s a kind of love only a mother can give,
and I looked to you to take its place.
Now I sit in this lounge where the barflies die,
thick with smoke and last goodbyes.
Will you ever rise and stand beside me?
Or is it another round of misery?

The bell rings out for last call again,
no more ghosts, no more gin.
Chairs go up like coffins folded,
the jukebox coughs one final hymn.
Daddy if you’ve got one good deed left,
then ferry me home through the grey.
The night is done, your glass is empty,
don’t make me go the orphan’s way.