Father Mine

Of the father might I speak for a moment more,
Of the man who threw my mother into the door?
Of how that cry as her reflection broke on piercing shards,
Can be no more violent than her cry as crossing the yard.
Me, but a boy in the hall with a view into the room.
Hair wild and black and hands racked with clenching.
So small and frail, yet filled to no avail with a rage
Far from fleeing even when silence comes.

Cast me a line, oh father of mine and maker of my bone.
A spark thrown into the darkness where fruit swells
And then born early and pale with yellow tinge, dying,
But with a Goddess trying to save a son soon to be her own,
Deep within my bone the iron forged and cast jaundiced tinge
Aside and set rose light to cheeks soon to know a smile...
For a while until eyes and mind linked can understand
How well you wish to use your hand on my mortal mother.

Call yourself Lover? Man with many hearts tied to his and craving,
While a family remains in purgatory and pain of slaving
To simply keep warm without light and heat because of you!
You wicked man that knew only coin and broke the box containing
So as with pockets full of fifty pennies you can venture forth gaining
The kisses of sluts and whores knowing we are starving here
While you fill your greedy, rotting belly with wine and beer
And leave us in the dark to know only warmth of cuddle and feel
While icicles form in the bathroom like daggers set on steel.

So cast me a line if that is all we would ever know,
While you work on the brother of mine and blood and bone
And turn his mind against a mother with only love to give.
To what aim was this game you feel to play and born to live?
To turn him from my mother for your bigger box of coin
To be opened like a cloud of locus to devour the join
Between mother and son and sister and brother
With the result of you gaining absolutely nothing.

So that was all then and the now is far from there,
But I hear you are dead and am conflicted with thought.
Should I grieve and wrought a pain so deep it buckles
The heart I have hardened against you who loves nothing?
Then you are not dead for it was rumour and lies.
No coincidence that such traits follow in your wake,
But let me speak for a while of the maker of me
And let him know I am not ready to set the cunt free.

Be gone from my eyes a moment, you dreamy tales of joy I wove.
Come forward frosty Jack with your cold hand and touch my heart.
Let the words that follow part with the chill I wish them to hold
And Dark Mother who I love above all, hear my wish for him to grow old!

Let him not die in the illusion of lost touch and disconnection.
Let him know of his son's severed cord and utter rejection.
Let him know the iron of my blood is now a sword held against him.
Let him sense the slash that will deliver not death, but utter pain to him.
Let age not come with grace to his polluted streams from where I was born.
No, not for he who knows nothing of love or the joy taught by the Faun
Or of the Mother Dark and between the worlds who clutches my hand,
And who whispers in my ear as I speak of murder "I understand."

Let him know I am forged within his very own cast.
For I am a belly full of rage and wickedness.
I am the sly, devious, viscous creature often feared.
I am the heart that pumps hard and if not warming - it sears.
If in Dante's tale, I am he who would not flee from the wolf
But rush instead up the sloping hill and feel teeth tear me.
Left bleeding I would rejoice in the bitter pain of the bite
Knowing that She would see my wounds and face - then weep.
Not allowing wounds to remain or for my red blood to seep
Into this earth She knows I have honoured and given up to
Without any doubt or loss of faith because I know the hand I hold.

Let him know I love him none.