child of virtue

poetry.

if i could but fly,

and will my mother to never die -

then i would be a child of virtue.

and then i could be born again.

but I reek of my failures and my own father has sought me dead,

and in the ache of my person, I see her instead.

in her youth, and in her flora.

untouched by the wine of deceit,

sober from the guilt of the Earth.

and if I could but try,

and will my father to have never tried,

then maybe she’d be free and I alleviated from my suffering and existence in the same order.

not as a sacrifice for her happiness,

but as restoration of the way things ought to be.

when women loved, were loved and chased their dreams.