My Fathers son

in the living sorrow
of my father‘s son,
simmered, bitter and fresh,
no wisdom, men or now begun.

Clutched at by trouble,
Yet I cannot carry any place
for my heart and soul,
no demon could ever taste.

This morning
you saw the strength in yourselves,
the undying passion of fear,
to taste the bitterness of dust
or the salt from a falling tear.

With all his majesty has grown to hate
like fear brewing inside blood,
much like the boiling of adrenaline
While bones become ground to dust.

While bravery feels like a whisper
on the breeze, yet never to grasp,
I’ll find my eternity in her laughter,
while walking through the reeds and the grass.