I Am The Tempest’s
Son
I saw my father’s face in a window pane today
Save that it did not have his features
The complexion and the colour were all wrong
The gaze as strong as the chin was weaker
But the same scowl curved the mumbling lips
The same shimmering, simmering rage
Seethed behind these always disappointed eyes
And I realized I’d never turned the page
Today, I am my father’s rage.
I saw my father’s faith in a windowed train today
As I glimpsed my own confused reflection
All sound and fury, noise and hate
As it always goes these same directions
Without variance and without hope
With but a slow certainty of arrival
It only goes where it’s always been
Without even prayer of revival.
Not even begging for survival.
I saw my mother’s doubt in an overpass today
With cracks in it’s foundation
And painted sayings not her own
Adorning each incarnation
Someone loves somebody else
But it never feels like her
Hell, it never feels like me
And we are always what we were
And we were never very sure.
I saw my own reflection through a looking glass today
And I could not find resemblance
A bitter husk of wilted choice
For each and every false remembrance
Where I blamed a father’s features
For a fault that I should bare
Or a mother for a fault I chose to share
Until I saw myself just standing there
Still so very unaware that I am killing me.
