Tuesday, 5 February 2013
My son has stretched his legs to make a man,
He looks at me and sees an also-ran.
I gave him human life and mortal pain,
Now he gives it back to me again.
I taught him right from wrong, I thought I should,
How do I know myself, or bad from good?
I stained his morals with my mortal sin,
And never told him why the doubts begin.
He bears the baggage of my tainted past
on narrow shoulders, that must a lifetime last
of treading, wary of my quicksand stride,
Avoiding pitfall of my buried pride.
This Dorian mirror of my futile life,
Genetic vengeance of a fretting wife.
Accusing stare ingrained in teenage face
Raw reminder of a man’s disgrace.
(The sins of the fathers?)