leaden glacier
Lo, speak not ill of mine own father too swiftly,
For he was no wicked lord nor drunken beast of night.
Nay—he toiled till his bones grew weary,
And bore upon his shoulders the burden of our house.
Bread was upon the table because his hands did tremble with labour,
And though his voice was harsh,
His love oft hid itself in silent deeds.
Yet hear me now—
What strange cruelty doth dwell within love unspoken?
Mine father stood beside me all my days,
Yet ne’er did we wander the roads as father and son.
No joyful travels beneath summer skies,
No laughter shared beside distant rivers.
The world beyond our doorstep remained a tale untold.
And he—
A man forged of temper and storm—
Did pass unto me the selfsame fire.
His anger became mine inheritance.
His thunder now sleepeth within my chest.
When mine studies failed to please him,
He held me against the golden sons of other men.
“Behold them,” quoth he,
“Why art thou not alike?”
Thus comparison became the knife
That carved shame into the tender flesh of youth.
He drew me away from merry company,
From the noise of companions and youthful tongues,
Then questioned why silence had made its home within me.
“What ailment makes thee so withdrawn?”
he would ask.
Alas—
Doth the gardener blame the flower
For bending toward the shade?
And oft he mocked the body Heaven gave me.
A jest to him, perchance—
Yet to a boy, even laughter may wound deeper than iron.
Still… still mine heart refuseth hatred.
For when night consumed the house,
I would behold him asleep upon the chair,
Exhaustion hanging from his limbs like chains.
And I would think—
“Mayhap this too is his first life.”
“Mayhap fathers are but men
Forced to wear crowns they never wished for.”
He was innocent in ways I cannot name.
Yet I, too, was but a child.
And oft I fear
I have been an ungrateful son—
For even now, whilst speaking mine grief aloud,
A voice within me whispers:
“He loved thee as best he could.”
jagged vortex
sinful wyvern
vivid junco
exotic niche