Phils Inferno

PHIL'S INFERNO

Feeding upon my sorrow,
they dance carelessly upon my judgement,
Knowing not of sympathy, remorse, or even guilt,
but of only sweet, sweet fulfillment.
A feeling so familiar and warm,
so reposed and calm,
Yet catastrophic...
Cataclysmic...
And even more diabolic.
Never dying,
Only engulfing,
Wrong - yes,
at best - I confess.
These flames only burn higher.

There is nothing a son wants more than his father's approval, and there is nothing a son will not do to earn his father's respect.  
It was Father's Day. The heat seemed to bring out the worst in people that day. The folks and I were not on the best of terms. We had been at each other's throats for the past couple of weeks. I can not remember what got the argument started that day, but it was a crazy one. I could feel my face turn red from anger. I sat there on our old leather couch, sweat soaking my clothes, sticking skin to fabric, to cushions. I stood up and started to walk out, only to get called back, to get yelled at some more. A clear glass sat on the table. It seemed to sweat more than me that day. I could not take it any more. I swung at the glass with an open hand. Shiny shards flew through the air for what seemed like forever. I left.
Blood trickled down my fingers from the open gash on my hand, as I sat on the back porch. Anger, mixed with a need to make things right, ran through my head. It was Father's Day, and all I wanted was to make my dad happy. A cool breeze, almost relieving, began to blow, making me raise my head. I saw old, rotten wood: a house, unfit to live in. My old man hated that pile of scrap almost as much as he hated the slumlord who owned it. They often argued, usually when the slumlord's junk overflowed into our yard. I remembered once hearing my father say he would not mind watching the old place burn to the ground. I rested my head back on the wall and glanced at the clouds that seemed to be so peaceful and happy. I wanted to make things...