Heir of...

My father is an artist, a man of many talents. He stumbles on wine bottles, a canvas of glass. His arms cut open, blood like grapes in wine. His palms gripping the wheel, steering towards his fate. A divine fruit of sorts, pierced by shards of windshield glass, it leaks blood. His eyes will be open, and he will see both good and evil. But the pain of knowledge will stay with him, forever. And he will braid thorns through my hair, intertwining pain and fate. With the sun falling on his biblical dream, he will choke the snake using his old, dry hand to give to his heir its own shedding skin. As he smokes his Camel cigarette, releasing acrid memories into the night. He dances drunkenly on the beach, swaying and stumbling, emerging from the grassroots and into the pounding waves of the ocean. Saltwater slithers and caresses his feet as he seeks solace in the sea. My father is an fighter, a man who stumbles and falls. Plates in disarray on the floor, like food spilled from heaven's table. Spite and ambrosia cling to his teeth and tongue. An artist who paints with blood and vomit, who dances in mud, who sings without song. My father is a creator of beauty and grace. His magnum opus, his masterpiece, children.