You held me in your arms once,
When I was born,
Long hair and wiry limbs,
But I don’t remember you.

Mom tells me stories,
Of your addiction,
And your sentence,
But I don’t remember you.

Drugs are your curse,
Prison is your cage,
And you draw a self portrait,
But I don’t remember you.

You look like Jesus,
Eyes full of pain,
Body hardened with time,
But I still don’t remember you.

You got out that day,
And waited for the train,
To bring you back to us,
So that we can remember you.

Something happened that day,
You were found with skinned knees,
But no other clue,
Why can’t we remember you?

There was no funeral,
Just a portrait you sent,
Drawn by your hand,
I wish I could remember you.

You were taken,
The day you were set free,
Your sentence served,
I think God remembered you.