Everything but Self-Immolation.

The world is shredding itself in the hope of remake.
A father, looks at his son for the last time,
a single tear riding ambitiously down his face as he
watches his son straighten his shoulders;
carry the weight of yet one more thing the father
could not cope with himself.
Such a strength is not biologically granted, but obtained.
O father.
Was leaving the best way to tell your children you love
them?
Was the self-sacrifice enough to make them see their worth;
golden dipped with echoes of sincerity.
That they make so much of themselves with absence
as the seed they grow from?
You had thought that life was such a straight
pathway, that struggle never defined an ending in an existence
where you move forward, smiling effortlessly
in the face of grief yet here you are
- fast forward -
walking away from a family you had to admit would do
worlds better without you.
But your son is standing in scraps. Wasteland
as sore as a newly made cut; a broken mirror-
this is the day he learns that leave means love.
Another story unravels, as long as rope that
pulls
pulls
and pulls.
Noose shaped.
Thanks to you, they learn to lose everything to love because
Losing is sacrifice and sacrifice is love
and love is leave.
It never works out for the best. Does it?
I hope that your son knows that such teachings as this is as
brutal as seeing lovers turn their backs upon you-
That he never shoves his tongue down another girls
throat in the hope to feel control over emotion.
I hope he never feels the need for distance;
to push family away and not dare break every law
to try and steal them back.
I hope he doesn’t absent minded walk into a life
almost as lonely as a single gravestone
beneath a hangman’s tree, robbed from any form of grace.
There is no sugar coating it.
Abandonment is the bombshell they make it out to be and
worse.
O father.
You lit the match to make the monk run on fire.
He sprints to his saviour.
-
-
It looks nothing like you.