My Son

The day is dying
Yet his joie de vivre is self-inciting
Inadvertent and insular
As impervious to my languor
as it is inalienable.

A memento of time past,
A dream deplete and obsolete,
The intrepid pioneer of life’s wonders
Callow and mettlesome
Precariously insatiable
As pliant as he’ll ever be,
Impetuous to conquer the world.

His future too will be lacerated
With the natural influx of mordacious mendacities
And he’ll be embroiled into adulthood,
And his innocence will ineffably mutilate
Into the mordant reality of life

What if this essential quality,
Perquisite to his coevals,
Is authentically, inherently his,
And will miraculously stay unscathed,
ocular and palpable as it is now,
never to evanesce or obliterate
Into the world’s unforgiving virulence?

I bet that’s the case.

  1. That is indeed the case, no doubt

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