My Dear, Child
Mandy, my dear child, I forgot to state,
that it be your mother and me
that have come to be the authors of your life,
it is we that are responsible for your strife.
It was our hands that wrote upon the slate,
the future that foretells the story of your fate,
a story that we all are so sad to have lived, to see.
The ways of man, the ways of me
are not what I am, are not what I see,
but surely, they are, in the end, what I be.
A distance, small or great, from being free.
To soar upon glorious, feathered wings,
high above all, with a sweet voice that sings
of all the right choices one’s life brings
that could take one beyond all that stings
the body, the heart, the spirit, the soul.
To take us to that place, what a thing to know,
that we may feel free, may know a safe place to go.
Shadows frozen upon the walls of time,
along those mirrored halls, memories, they shine
upon all that life has become, this fate of mine.
Is woman ?, Venus, a distant planet
or a fisher of men, men to catch in her net ?
Is woman ?, the statue of ancient myths and legend,
or might she be other ?, alive, real, warm and a friend.
Her heart, to many, she has lent,
will any one man be sufficient.