Chasing the wild goose

The images of the tear soaked eyes of my mother,
the trembling raging hands of her husband smother,
have burned themselves in my head. Like a gif,
replaying the event, him lashing at her in a tiff,
with anger of origins unknown to me. My mother
kept me away from herself and him, in hopes rather
to protect me but only ending alienating even her
to me. Is it my fault? Am I the cause of the stir?

Then he goes ahead and dies a slovenly death.
Appendicitis they say, I wonder if it hurts.
I slowly say to myself, beneath my breath.

I was six but I care not shed a tear and why?
He was not my father.
Aren't fathers supposed to pick you up at school?
Make you ride on their shoulders?
Take you out to play?
Teach you how to ride a bike?
But the one who died was just a stranger. I look
around for my father I never had to rebuke.

Growing up with relatives, was I ever loved?
There was a time when I was young and fragile.
Everyone adored me, protected me - the beloved.
I wish I had stayed young and fragile.
Forever loved. But growth cannot be stopped
and those around you get aged and not agile.
You just become a burden to bear.
And none have time on you to spare.
Time may heal several wounds, but there
are those that it tears apart even further.

With every passing day, I looked more like my father.
His genes coursing through my veins, moulding me
in his image. And that's when I called him my father
I suppose. Distinct and clear visible impact on me,
the unabashed, hurtful mirrors show the truth to me,
that I cannot deny anymore. I vowed
"to be a good child, a man better than my father
I will show that my birth had meaning and purpose
I wont let God play me like a ringmaster of a circus
I wont let Him deny my existence
No. Rather, I deny His. For God does not exist.
I will fight my fate with persistence."

The ripples of time have taken me away from that day,
My accolades and achievements are shelved on display,
But I stand at the top, lonely and empty,
Having distanced everyone who ever got close to me.
I can only trust myself and none other,
I cannot even bring myself to hug my mother.
I don't know anymore what I wished to see,
nor can I imagine what I wished to be.

You see, when aims and dreams are attached to the living,
their hope and love become your strength, their sadness
your motivation and their happiness your reward. Giving
everything for the ones you love and living is a harness
that can never get worn.

But when aims and dreams are attached to the dead,
it was always about chasing the wild goose to the bed.