My Father's Face

Another mad rush of words. We do the butterfly dance. Staying out of reach of saying anything substantial. Hiding behind the pluralistic "we". You know whats hidden behind that rock? Nah. There's no teasing you. It's the same old. Been there done that weariness. Jaded. Faded.

Am just turning up for work. No, this is not a ritualistic, kiss the dusty altar floor of the writer's temple. Ok. In a sense it is. Just turning up to report for duty sir.

I haven't kept my father's face before me. I haven't forgotten. I did much worse. Snapshotted him into a passport size pic. Beat my chest with home pride - pass the pic around the fire and say "my dad". Then, I push it back in to the wallet, into the back pocket and join in the blood dance. Kill and revel in the blood. The dance of the dark. It's all a dull, gray, automatic line of beckoning. A mocking hook in the gut. And me all the time spouting a thin powerless line of hate to remind me that I have my father's face in my back pocket and these atrocities on the heart of mankind will be avenged.

Avenge? Revenge?

Aint that off the list of Dos?

Maybe. Exile is close enough.