Order of The Driver

On that day, He told me to be The Driver.

My hand clutched the wheel firmly.

I told myself that The Son, however hard he tries,

Will always be the source of disappointment.

There, Father sat in the passenger seat,

Exploiting the colors of the sunset as a shade in His head,

Blistering in the heat of His despondency.

I knew I was a hindrance in His joy, a pain to look upon.

The highway stretched indefinitely,

Nauseating, distorted, a path through Hell,

Like a journey that would never end, tearing through the flames on the horizon,

Tension burning from my right, a blur to my left, a world whispering just beyond the windshield.

I had neglected The Order of The Son, or perhaps I never knew it, I thought.

His chagrin shone as old, humming street lights passing, electrifying.

His face reflected from the cold window, drenched in emotion,

There was a restlessness in His eyes, which hadn’t looked upon me in hours.

This was the moment we had come to,

The moment The Father expels The Son, having failed Him so,

He tells him to leave, forever.

He tells him it’s over, it’s time to grow up, it’s time to be a man.

An empty lot received my sorrow, a stygian crypt touring my thoughts.

The car rippled to a slow stop through thick darkness that encompassed us.

And there, He looked at me finally.

I saw a distraught face, a worrisome mind, a caring heart.

And when I finally looked upon His heart,

I knew,

His love was all for me, He had never forgotten,

The Order of The Father.

One that night, He outstretched His hand,

And I clutched it firmly.

I told myself that My Father, however threatening He seems

Will always be proud.