A play of fears, and fears.
Their misdeed is done,
and still, they seek empathy.
Suppressed and smacked
by their fathers, and
smothered by their mothers.
What is wrong with
making a promise, they say,
and then dancing
with the slum lords.
Who slant against
the certainty of tides.
Morning, afternoon,
and evening too.
The only hope is to face it,
and retell it in words,
touch and sounds.
And I have you,
a voice of gladness,
and a spiritual smile.
No longer afraid of the past
holding us captive.
Such a perfect
loveliness for now.
A Wandering Poet 