When the father lived, the son died.
He was crucified on his father’s cross.
A cross he carried and his father made.
But he wasn’t his father’s reflection.
His mind didn’t mirror his.
Even when he tried to reflect back his image.
He failed and failed again.
It’s hard for the child to be the man.
It was hard for that child to be that man.
But that child tried to lift himself up to his father’s height.
And the few times he did, the ladder was quickly swept away.
For his dad was taller when he stood on his child’s ego.
His reason and heart battled to claim the ship of self.
The heart said: Father does no wrong.
And reason replied: He can do wrong. He has done wrong!
The battles were as unfair as the war was long.
Each little battle took place in the father’s domain.
And abided by his rules.
He made the Right and the Wrong
Which made each bruise bleed in shame.
‘Punished for being punished.’
His mates never knew the tightness of his dad’s reigns.
How they cut into their mate’s skin
Each time the boy tugged away.
How he struggled to escape.
How he struggled not to escape.
How the easy option was so very hard.
How the world shrunk to the size of his father’s ego.
In the forest of father’s rules, he struggled for breath.
He hoped to find his free self hiding behind the next tree.
But when he found it, on those few occasions, it quickly ran away.