Four years old next February-
Already he is angry like a man.
His eyes are dark, his hair is dull, even in the sun.
His baby fists ball, he shakes, he screeches-
Our mother laughs, oblivious,
No more adult than he is,
Denying him the arms that he desires.
I want to scoop him up and hold him close,
To find some hidden country in the world,
Where he could find his smile, lost so early-
But I fear he might resent me in the end.
So he must learn what childhood taught me,
That he will love her now, and strive to please,
But she will hurt him more than anyone he knows.
Author notes
In the process of being revised.
Adding your comment:
2 old applause
