The Reaped Souls

Jacky Vasantachat, Staff writer

Part I

What is a father? A figure that’s meant

to kindle a hellish fiery torment?

To shatter bosoms of mother, child?

To fan consuming flames, Despair wild?

Is it to heartlessly wreck, rip, remove,

foundations which would otherwise behoove?


Ah! Traitor, betrayer, oh selfish scum

Who forsook blood for more pleasure and some!

Who crushed bright fragments Hope and Love  

and pressed lips eager t’other woman’s glove,

Acting noble prince pursuit of princess

when game he’d been playing; a game of chess!

Wanting to have and keep two queens at once,

One meant, another not, father, you dunce!  

The nature of man, to want what’s not his,

Yet, so father’s nature is what it is.


What is a father? A curse? Haunting bane?

Inconsiderate fool who wax’s and wanes?

Whose presence, though there, is absent in thought,

Being is near, yet mind wandering, caught?

Oh father, what father, would do such a thing

so as to make merry that which does sting?     


Ah! Inflictor of wounds, so deep and long!

A practiced poet of merciless song,  

with alluring words, chiming false and sweet

by which you pitch, mother’s tears fall; repeat.

Yes father, you father, don’t dare deny

the shameful acts you’ve committed, but try!    

Trudge the miry murk and murky mire

You’ve so thoughtless posited us—Sire!

See the woman you’ve left, sorrow you’ve brought,

Hear lost infant’s woe, your child, cared naught!


Still—you’ll play a rogue? Cast disdainful sneers?

Leave woman and child to flow’ring fears?

How can this be? No remorse? Is this real?

Not shame, not guilt, nor consoling appeal

Bursts forth from your hollow chest, your frost lips.

Oh how that famished visage drools and drips,

Eyes future hopes ours, ambrosia fine,

As the family crumbles—the sipping swine!


Indeed, he sips, he drinks, he feasts and cheers,

For wreckage he cries, towards pleasure he veers.  

Desolate ruins are left in his wake!

Bonds forgotten, his eyes ravenous make

A risen dream! Feared nightmare come for sport?

Perchance a vision of sober sad sort?

Nay—he won’t rue, yet, he’ll dare rage! Wont smite

throbbing embers surged, sparks fain to ignite.


Yes, misfortunes are theirs, they the spurned spawn!

What inheritance felt, when dark breaks dawn!

‘Round minds walls erupt, glacial glass hollow,

Those frosty forts which shrivel, wilt, swallow

the budding hearts, floating down rivers red,

Make a streaming meadow, the fragrant dead.

A harvest of souls youthful and souls ripe

Beckon the reapers that reaping come—Swipe!


But this, is this, a father’s true nature?

Could it be all? Or is it none? Neither?

Melancholy, loneliness, anguish, grief  

All at his hands? No—No! In disbelief

I’ll not, no not, settle. I’ll stand steady

to search for what’s true, steps right, feet ready.


[Part 1/2]

Photography: Kristina Tripkovic on Unsplash

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