You storm the inspection area
Your dad had prepared.
You ransack it with your gang.
In a fury, he sells you off to a ship,
That sails to unknown lands.
Holding the same grudge, you
Excel in your chores, teach
Yourself cooking. Find love,
Make children and eventually
Become a world-known chef
Of the hopeless ship that
Heads almost nowhere.
One of those big days, when
Queen of England was hosted
You were in charge-
Of the big feast. Your son topples
The buffet table on the guests
And you turn seasick..
The higher-ups ask you to throw
Him in the sea but you roast him
To feed him to the delegates.
Your deceased father is horrified
By the scene. So he travels back
In time to not sell you in angst.
But time travel doesn't exist
Does it? And all the un-addressed
Trauma never gets fixed.
So all the metaphorical suffering,
Is transferred to all the symbolic
Victims. Molehills of parents
As mountains on children's
Shoulders- a dynamite underneath,
With a trigger, God knows what.