by Hector M. Rivera
Would that I could spare thee son from dragons of my youth,
who squatted down upon my choice and rended it straight through.
If I could strangle demons with gauntlet hands for days,
the tragedy of your pain would disappear decades.
One Dragon in particular her teeth still stained with blood,
manifested too late for me to plant my sword in good.
Her name was seed and I did reap the discord you now feel,
pray tell me son, but do not weep your fate will not be sealed.
How could a boy so innocent feel father’s sin so strong,
that shadows run after him and long to tear him down,
to darkened holes and furnace pits and places filled with rot,
who smile with glee when then they see the evil in the plot.
Would that I could challenge all those shadows who aim to feast,
upon your youthful joy and epic aims to ingest peace.
I would scream a barbarous yell and scatter darkness far,
I would plant my axe brain deep atop the carcass yard.
Bloody tears sown thick with hate would fuel my deathly rage,
to cleave and maim the shadows deep who seek to have you slain.
I would die of burning, I would die of blade,
before I ever let those things touch hair or hide I made.
Forgive me son, forgive me for it is I who doomed you so,
I could not listen and would not listen to warnings I was shown.
Please steer clear of dragons who seek to utter lies,
and lead you down the path with speed to familial demise.