A dead man

People shunned her,
People stared,
To call her names,
For she was weird.

Her hair was curly, never styled,
Her clothes were rags,
Her dad never cared,
Her bruises grew larger every night,
She claimed that they were regular.

Then summer came,
She would wear skirts,
With tights underneath,
We pestered why,
Why she never went swimming,
Why she wore those “silly” tights.

She confessed to me by saying,
“My fathers pain, has many forms,
And he wishes that I experience them”,
This girl is my best friend,
Gone from rags to riches,
She’s always happy ,
Living with me now,
Sleeping every night, on our extra bed,
Her father is gone,
Months after she left,
He had to much pain,
To live any longer.

He is buried,
With no tombstone,
That reads “beloved husband, and dad”
But with a simple cross,
For a dead man.