"Father"

I remember,
When I was younger, my father,
His dissatisfactions.

We would tremble, as he
(Popping his head around the door)
Snarled at us, for failing
To be as He wanted of us.

Now, as I am older,
The snarl holds little threat.
His constant displeasure
Is merely monotonal work

Of a worn out engine which,
(Always in use)
We never came around
To changing.

That snarl is not
That we are something other
But that He, with His dissatisfaction,
Is something He wants us not to see.