The Dilemma of Parental Love
Every time you take a glance:
Same gray eyes, fragile tiny hands
Lifted high, and eager to climb.
Warm ice forms with each smile.
Smooth outline stitched to skin old,
Like a leaf birthed on a stick.
None willing the other to go.
Feet itching till distance permits.
Inches high, hands learn to write.
Clothed arm then spawns sweat
And guided grip begins to cede:
'I can now write without help!'
Tucked shorts need no 'button me'
A truth you at last catch up with.
Love then lurks and pipes all night
But is left to dance with hard time.
Love rises and raises a mark.
Pushing to aim, a naive arm.
Pines and cries in every miss,
Takes target far-off as he hits.
Little red legs recede the more
As the mass of the gun graduates
Slamming every door, knocks before.
Seeking guidance beyond the gates.
'Listen I have been you before!'
Love struggles a sit in the front.
Errors grown eyes can see, births pain
And a vile ghost of having failed.
Love sits and watches in misery
Tempted to trust, but faith not enough.
Stuck in a choice with dim outcomes:
Chase or give space, which will love pick?
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