Time

At the mercy of your merciless father, his hands have no kindness. They glide over you painfully uttering all your past transgressions in a slanderous out of rythm tune. Your father holds tightly the wisdom that is your key. He painstakingly strokes every wound, controlling you with unbearable propulsion. He grows old with with you, absent, elusive, a luxury not to be squandered. In the end he has one cherrished mortal decision. No respect for your illusion. As you waiver between realities and your earthly tree of life begins its slumber, Your fathers icy breath blows through the withered leaves, screaming your deception to all with sublime exquisitness. The now brittle leaves gracefully take their last journey. Eyes closed. Deep sigh. Even your father cannot reverse the glory of relief, like so many stolen moments over the seasons. Slowly slipping through your fathers grasp until finally your soul discovers release from that which imprisons all man.