Where would we be without our painful childhood?
The conditioned existence
Of tracing tomorrow
As the story whispers today.
A small child shadows over your
Moments of must
With her rapturous gaze
You quench growing misery
To prevent your misfortune
Of her infancy penetrating
Your maturity.
In the end, her too young
Taught torment
Causes your reason to hesitate
Her splitting arrogance
Peals your nails
As your fingers age away.
Chandler Jeanne Rappaport
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