My father was a story teller,
While my mother held the experience.
He always had the words to say,
But only she knew it first hand.
Exaggeration was his strong point,
But in reality she had the upper-hand.
For he lacked the true courage,
Which she had gained from her past.
A coward at best, but a writer at heart,
My father was creative, yet fearful in thought.
Protector, she was, and strong in spirit,
My mother was never weak but stern in beliefs.
Yet here I am stuck in between,
With lies to accept or adventures to fear.
For having a Father of Time and a Mother of Nature,
Who am I but a Son of Misery who they no longer care for.
But as the days go by,
And the seasons change,
I'll be the only one who knows about the "truth"
the other's praise.
