Conditions
My children are grown now,
But in their eyes are moths not butterflies
When they look at me. How
Does heart that love family so make replies
Against inherent truths that circled by lies
The vulture is my own that got my eyes.
But they will have children too
And love and do half less than much to match
What I have done. I even rue
For them any marriage that should scratch
The lens of dreams that they might hatch
For now I see all foreboding through my patch.
When they were young I gave
Them all, but only middle men profit here. She
Was the hand young birds crave
When food time came, though I provide the pea.
By they grew up I was driven out, for love flee
Still, and she supplies the slanted memory.
Yet I cannot kneel in prayer
Unless I pray for all my family still. O bless
Her, and they whose anger
Latent as volcanoes drift neath false calmness
Fighting a figment battle to their own distress.
My love for them has no regrets, just loneliness.
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