Our Fathers, Once Gods, No Longer

Life was holier then when younger, opened gifts at Christmas, I toyed beside the shelter of my father. Faith in the world was stronger when what little I knew, relied upon the lies he told me when younger, For as the hand of God, come under a cloud to part the sea for a boy, I walked proudly through the crowds with my father. But now, his iconic loom no longer fends, like prometheus, the plight of man from one no longer younger. For I see in the winter of his growing older, this frail mortal of him, that destroys the hope I would hold his hand forever. Empty by fact of having grown colder, Christmas goes quietly without the joy so omnipresent when I was younger- and still knew God by the shape of my father.