Father

A Poem by insanity

Time, the devourer of everything. - Harry A. Overstreet

I really wish you'd be more kind,

Then maybe we wouldn't mind,

When a wrinkle crosses our face,

When our skin looses it's place.

We live out our days waiting,

For the end to all this hating,

For Father to bring us peace,

For this pain to finally cease.

Father won't you save us now,

Take us back to learn just how

To love one another once again,

For we only do it now and then.

We take but don't always give,

Giving means others can live,

But some don't think sacrifice,

Is part of the path to paradise.

Always looking to tomorrow,

Finding time for us to borrow,

Increases interest on our loans,

Like each of life's unknowns,

We'll eventually get through it,

Meaning we get some respite,

From our Mother's glaring eye,
But don't let Father pass you by.

Mother is always on the move,

Stuck in the same old groove,

On an endless trek 'round the sun.

Playing Father's game is no fun,

We can all attest to that notion,

Together they keep us in motion.

Without one the other would die,

Hand in hand together they fly.

From Mother's womb we all grow,

Nurtured by Father's forward flow,

Born as fools we all become wise,

As life passes by our aging eyes.

Father bestows to us a great gift,

Through the hard times we sift,

Digging in the grim and the guff,

To find a diamond in the rough.

Father has seen all of this before,

From small battle to atrocious war,

Fought on Mother's broken back,

He's seen fundamentalists attack,

He's witnessed our greatest feats,

He's watched as history repeats,

Father smiles down on his sons,

Raising up their shiny toy guns.

© 2009 insanity

Author's Note

�Father Time is not always a hard parent, and, though he tarries for none of his children, often lays his hand lightly upon those who have used him well; making them old men and women inexorably enough, but leaving their hearts and spirits young and in full vigor. With such people the gray head is but the impression of the old fellow's hand in giving them his blessing, and every wrinkle but a notch in the quiet calendar of a well-spent life.� -Charles Dickens