His knife cut the son’s breath short,
as the father fell to the ground.
Filial eyes followed the descent,
purblind, disbelieving.

Sirens wailed to a stop,
rushing constabulary to the fore.
Cold steel cuffing bloodied hands
bore the slayer away.

Justitia’s sword struck the cell doors
locking the slayer in.

In the arms of despair, the son rages.
Repentant in the penitentiary, the slayer cries.

An age passes, the son rages.

But then, Spring’s blooms opened and Summer soon followed.
The son’s rage wanes.

Summer’s swallows flew south and Autumn’s leaves fall.
The son’s rage dulls.

As Winter’s bluster blew in, the son’s rage withered.

Upon Spring’s return, the son’s rage thawed.

Socks in a care package forgives the slayer’s knife.