The Lost Children of My Soul
They’re not lost really,
the bastard children of
my errant soul;
they’re in there somewhere,
wandering and
waiting for a place of
their own.
(Too proud to be the same, they wait and wait
for lightening to strike.)
Fear of propriety, rejection,
and blame, always
another reason to stay away;
these are my lost children,
destined to be alone
in the dark forest of my
soul,
wandering and waiting for my
muse to call and
write them a poem to call
home;
like my feelings on the indigenous
issue: moral
rectitude, entitlement, and
victimhood—
a karmic obscenity too
terrible to name.
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