A darkened path, a search for the night. A walk through the valley of hope, down the isle of wishes. I sort the source of his rage, the antecedents of his ways. His name, Father.

A mentor to some, a dementor to many. His rule of Iron, staunch in his antique ways. Sometimes I think him Gothic, clogged by wrath. Like a counter-fort of fire, albeit difficult to fathom, backbreaking to assimilate.

His ways full of thorns, his path curly in my eyes, straight in his words. His buffonious look, like cold water on a burning star. As a child I felt like a Marie, his transformations made me fiasco. Because in him I was born, soon after, born in me was his touch. My cries like that of a toothless dog, a tongueless convict.

But then I think myself a miniature of his. A live labyrinth built over the years. Analogous to his countenated nature.
I suppose I would strive to lacerate my soul
from his spell. To be at liberty with my spirit, because in me he lives. To be to my apprehended child the fore-bearer I never had.
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