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 mans disgrace.

        (The sins of the fathers?)

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