Itching

My son is always on the wings of hurricane though he breathes as a gentle breeze No doubt,one day his father may be uprooted Like a juggler he plays, not with balls, but with dates and figures. Dad tell me about this pact Dad tell me about that treaty Dad who were on the other side Dad who were they But his father keeps mum always Why should one slip over the moss Silence is the panacea to switch off his libido That night was not unusual His questions paraded before a drooped head Reeling in the whirls of intoxication I dissolved my self in a peg of vodka Locked the dungeons of past, present and future Sprouted in his mother's veins I melted her with kisses But somewhere in the darkness I could hear wriggling, groaning Paws groping,jaws widening I could feel a medal swelling on my chest Blood is crying,sweat is gasping My friend, let me be frank That night,from head to heel itching snailed over me.Still scratching An unhealed wound is burning as an ember.