Fun with F

You are just a fleck of foam

floating on a frothing sea of father’s fickle fury.

Your feet are flayed to fresh flesh and

you have long since fallen to the final floor.

The fleeting fire of your failing eyes flashes

finely then finishes with a few feeble sputters.

For faith fails as you confront the fuming face of fate, its

fat fingers fastened firmly round you

poor feckless thing.

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