Why They Called Him Father

Why They Called Him Father

by JessicaRae 

He carried the weight of the entire tunnel community upon his own shoulders. Father to young and old alike, Jacob wasn't your normal leader of the flock. He was a medical doctor, much to his own dismay some times, as plague and disease reminded him of how weak he really was. All of his medical knowledge couldn't save everyone. But he sure was gonna try if it was the last thing he did. He cared for the community with such concern that everyone Below began to call him Father.

Steady as a beating Cherokee drum,

With a sure stance and firm portrayal

Of all of the dreams he carried deep inside,

To his own flock so true, so faithful.

With a gaze so stern and quite abrupt,

He worked and slaved for Below,

With the care and concern of the sages,

Using all the facts that he knows.

To heal whenever he was able,

The hurts of the family he created.

He would shelter, lead, and easily hide them,

Changing what life to them fated.

Most were outcasts, just like himself.

Above was quite the sleezy charmer.

It would shake and torment those that it hated,

While Below was peaceful, and calmer.

Plenty of space for all to spread out,

Tunnels so carefully crafted.

Comfortable and candlelit lightly and pleasantly.

From so many lives they were grafted.

Down inside, Father knew the truth

That he saw in the mirror each day

The world above had stolen and lied

and taken his license away.

He left it all, just turned away,

Fleeing the undeserved guilt,

And labored and prayed for the dwellers he brought

Below, a shelter was built.

The call of the Statue on New York's blue sky,

Holds no candle to what Father calls,

Safety, and shelter, and love that he gives,

Beneath and beyond city walls.

They scurry above like feline-chased mice,

Haggard and worn and run down,

While beneath in the steam of the subways and rails,

Lives a world of the lost and renown.

As he studies the chess board of another late game,

His mind - it wanderers along,

To the far distant memories of days long gone by,

The days without joy, without song.

His hands on the chessboard are care lined and worn,

His eyes sometimes dim with the past,

But a glance at the world that he has built with his prayers,

Makes sorrows flee like a shadow, and fast.

All that live below in this dark, shadowed world,

Find peace and solitude in the walls,

Of a world Below where everyone loves,

And there really can be no darkness at all.