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Mediocre son (me) crafts letter to his papa

Impossible mission to escape end of life woe
visit courtesy grim reaper 
inevitable for every mortal,
whether he/she alive
yesterday, today or tomorrow
quintessentially senescence tabled
upended wrested status quo
belief, dogma, faith...
(i.e. Unitarian Universalism)
albeit atheistic to the core

mine temporal perspective yes and no
affects how I process death,
afterlife mystery only 
googly dead souls know,
yet intimation possibly presage consciousness
prior to corporeal being given heave ho
cashing in chips tantamount
to omnipotent deity collecting his/her escrow,
whether thee cremated or buried six feet below.

Our short lived presence upon terrestrial firmae
forces yours truly (me) to reconcile and address
internalized emotions whereby decades elapsed
when sole son (begat between thee and mother)
found irksome offspring regarding shortcomings
triggered hollow ultimatums begetting madness
to flourish toward meek offspring inept at filial

duties, who sought refuge within known solitude
usually finding second born progeny holed up in
his bedroom ofttimes fervently engrossed reading
imaginatively escaping trials and tribulations +
wishing he could magically transform himself
far from irate parents, within their good graces
he fell short short since January 13th MCMLIX.

Methinks ambivalence towards papa
(a nonagenarian widower)
comprising mein kampf
three score plus one year
constituted ineradicable unseen wall,
nevertheless impenetrable as any damn weir

metaphorical barrier laid brick
by figurative brick encompassed unilinear
chronological invisible breastwork did snare
nobody but thyself anomalous to grown man
exhibited effeminate characteristics
as young lad, though not queer,

nor the least bit attuned and/or aware
about sexual orientation,
but simply introverted quite clear
to any casual observer,
a veritable outcast (of Poker Flat), i.e.
cuz I experienced alienation everywhere

at home (then 324 Level Road,
school (Henry Kline Boyer Elementary)
retreated to boyhood bedroom
contrived make believe playmates
courtesy overactive mental cog and gear
named Harny and Dinny never insincere.

Dear papa, your frail physical health disallows
in apropos, callous, and egregious to trot out
vindictive remonstration harkening back days
witnessed by extreme grievances signalling
caustic verbal brickbats lobbed squarely upon
passive progeny unable to attain expectations,
(albeit reasonable), I fell far short (physically

emotionally, and academically) to acquire atta
boy approbation rather constant browbeating
frightened timid lad scared of his own shadow
methinks yours truly shameful embarrassment
whereby failure to accomplish basic income
invariably congenital fait accompli linkedin
with purported schizoid personality disorder.
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