My father was but a dark shadow
passing down the hall,
a perpetual winter
onto himself.
My mother was but a blinding brace
of robes and smoke,
a withering wind
blown back hard.
I'm but the seed of misplaced rage
trapped in a past
caught on a half torn tape
spinning in my head,
a nightmare on rewind
I can't bear to eject.
Through it all, the squirrels in my yard
find the pickings pretty slim,
the trees stripped bare,
crying quietly into March
and neither much concerned
about poor, poor pitiful me.
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