Featherweight Low Tide
A curse of my paternal branch rooted down through the Irish clan, even if I dawned his very skin I doubt he could look at his own eyes, even through a mirror for the fear of a single fleeting thought of doubt in his own self-righteous life.
I won’t budge and I can’t move, all I can do is sink deeper. His shout a whip crack, neck snap, backlash, with a vengeance and spirit to break. From his father’s temper, the scars won’t fade, caught in the destructive loop with his eyes carrying the weight, pushing it on to another generation, only to be repeated by a hopeless son.
How can one begin to love when his father’s unlove can never be won and must become his own.
