Conditions

My children are grown now, But in their eyes are moths not butterflies When they look at me. How Does heart that love family so make replies Against inherent truths that circled by lies The vulture is my own that got my eyes. But they will have children too And love and do half less than much to match What I have done. I even rue For them any marriage that should scratch The lens of dreams that they might hatch For now I see all foreboding through my patch. When they were young I gave Them all, but only middle men profit here. She Was the hand young birds crave When food time came, though I provide the pea. By they grew up I was driven out, for love flee Still, and she supplies the slanted memory. Yet I cannot kneel in prayer Unless I pray for all my family still. O bless Her, and they whose anger Latent as volcanoes drift neath false calmness Fighting a figment battle to their own distress. My love for them has no regrets, just loneliness.