Its hard for me to grasp that I might somehow be my fathers equal in any way.

literature will lose, sunlight will win, don't worry.

Poem in other words may or may not result from inspiration but must (in reader and author alike) produce it--

I basked in you; I loved you, helplessly, with a boundless tongue-tied love. And death doesn't prevent me from loving you. Besides, in my opinion you aren't dead. (I know dead people, and you are not dead.)

The long silences need to be loved, perhaps more than the words which arrive to describe them in time.

I believe one day the distance between myself and God will / disappear.

Should each individual snowflake be held accountable for the avalanche?