Failures from Fathers in the End
Bitter cold towards the heavens, billowing warmth towards the earth, crimson slithering swallowed my vessel. Red and twinge was all glimpsed, all suffering. Faint, nauseating, clinching midriff; shrilling thuds from inside, swelled my inner ears. My windowing souls, from plain, too sallow, too slight, daunting and yet, very tangible, existent; it was calling me, some resonance from deep within, some sensing touch never felt before, tears of some unknowing conscience. Never in anyway imagined, in no way timed, my being… my adore… my demise.
Buoyant flashes, gradually dissipating; my temple appeared to grasp ever so slightly on an inner vortex, a vivid light, something unknown, however opening. It was beauty and despair, vibration, the core of companionship that could be seen. But not seen. Sensed, but not…
Wherever was the king of cloaks, the king of reaping? No where. What about the hands of grandfathers, the seeds of children? Not here. Piercing the veils with vibrancies, my unending way was lost, unnatural, and nevertheless poignant. Neither voice not heard nor felt; yet somehow known. A prism of sort, representing time in itself…without time, all could be seen in an instant.
Darkness once more…
Shrieking pain, sudden jolts of agony spewing red as reds ruin. Cold and brittle, frigid and frail, hazing life fleetingly. "Daddy." came a soft-spoken whisper. There were supple cries of innocence and lukewarm fingers abrasion, stinging his wounds. "Daddy please," spoke again. Now translucent, his insipid fair gleam smeared colorful. He could now distinguish his seed from the earth rooted six years. He clung around his father’s body and cried aloud. His head nestled tightly next to his arms with his eyes keenly implored, staring towards the dark amber skyline.
It was his touch, something invigorating, alleviating him free of all pain once suffered. Where have we gone? This be not the place of my mortal fate.
There were pale foliages of roses, a lavish variety all with promising eminence surrounded them… yet… only he.
Lasting words from his son had vanished, leaving a void emptiness of ambiguity. Mustn’t there be angels here? Where are the clouds of brighter dreams? No retort.
He now stood, naked from sin, liberated from the bloodied crimson stains, staring towards the sapphire horizon holding no moon, carrying no sun. His senses vague, his senses did not need to be found; at least not here it appeared. Was this his particular judgment, may the wrath of divinity exist on the distant plain of this luminous pasture? **
By Michael Mowder, Jr. 1999
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