Today is Father's Day.
But, all the days for such a sorrow-filled man, are blackened and plagued
With the very title: Father.
Was he a father?
That son who with a shotgun buried all virtue in the title,
Along with his own young body on Father's Day
Is haunting him just the same today.
And for that moment he remembers the dark attire
Bleeding into the dark day,
And the rightfully dark night.
For the sun, with shame, lowered his head into the clouds.
And the son, with anger, or what not, was resting in the closed coffin;
And found refuge in this ancient tributary void instead of in his father.
So was he a father?
This father gave life, and the son plucked it away
With a mock that will haunt him for all his days;
Every Father's Day he will remember the son he had.
And he will remember the value of such a title: Father,
And how he failed.
When all those who love him praise him,
He will remember, that on this day, on Father's Day,
His son took his life,
As if to mock his failure as a protector,
And to darken those of his remaining days,
Shaming him of any praise, for he failed.
Was his son, a son?
Masiela Lusha
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/father-s-day/
