Aftermath (Poetry)

He is not gone — we sense he’s here
in spirit, if not flesh
he lurks — his motivation clear —
he has a point to press.

We’re bound to carry on as though
his hand still turns the wheel
his influence unfailing — so
we keep an even keel.

His stern, unflinching will still rules —
the grave can’t shackle him
and we poor undertrodden fools
indulge tradition’s whim —

obey him out of fear — not choice
when duty prods us most
for not one soul dare raise their voice
nor cross the old man’s ghost.