The Young Son

The father,
a man,
the alpha of their world,
sweats and toils,
scavenges for twigs,
dry leaves
and some spirit
to light up
their lives...
For the son, angry,
will set in a bit.
The sun will leave his home,
chasing flesh,
in the dark recesses
of his fiery
red mind.

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The Bad Son

Like the helpless
roots I crush,
with her gift,
they bleed tears
for the deceased,
my soul...
 
Boiled and strained,
a pale, lifeless
piece of ginger;
it adds spice,
yet the bad son leaves;
a bitter taste, all that's left...

That bad son
I can never be,
but the bad son,
indeed, I really am!

Pic courtesy: One Bad Son, Canadian rock band