Sonnet, Papa.

I hunt you with the hot globe,
Papa-- bloodshot, misty malted breath--
Sorrow's child, weak and frightened, left.
Both tears and fire from one stomach’s pit cannot be forged
Around the world I stalk the Effigy,
Papa-- gods, professors, presidents and popes.
Hate burns beyond your single slurried trope;
A cosmic weapon hate has smelt in me.
When Fate is kneeling by your bed of death
Your jaundiced body, newborn-like, perfumes
With nurturing fragrances my cooling breath;
Unsettled Earth enfolds your heart and mine exhumes.
A hunter subsists, too, on victims made;
Our heritage haunts from graves where hunters lay.