The Thrashing

The harvest that you feared
is finally at hand;
twenty pathetic years
to draw to conclusion.

No desired bright report
you thought you could control,
but a dull, growing roar,
an avalanche building
momentum until it
is inexorable.

There's no pleasure felt in
vengeance finally wrought,
just melancholy thoughts:
what might, what should have been

The sins of the father
are borne not only by
the children, but by all.
You reap what you have sown,
but then I do as well.
For that, I resent you.