Tides

My insides shift
Pulled by the tidal forces
Of my father’s death mask
From beyond the grave.
Like the moon below the horizon,
Death’s head dentured grin.
The future invading my insides,
Transforming me into its own image,
Like a parasitic worm.
If I stop moving,
Rusty iron rod brittle white bones
Speared into the ground,
Transfixing.
Why fear the Distinguished Gentleman?
Because his name is Death.
Personified beacon.
Sunken closed eyes see nothing
Because all is known.
Come with me…
The final realisation:
I am my son’s Death,
Welcoming him with outstretched bony arms.
And so it goes.