Who are you in the morning
The one who lifts the feet off your child
And vise grips the broken, bludgeons the weak
You no longer make me shiver in fright
I see through your cowardice with shame
That a young boy would fall to his knees
At the noise of a dog with no bone to chew
Cradled by the nape and dug into the heels of
A story not ever cared of being mentioned
I’m the one to lose and sulk my days away
But you, whose words are lackluster and feeble
Carry the weight of two
That know so little to their own good
Dry as the scab from which you inflicted
I am born to be the delight of all good
The Atlas that carries the weight of your mistakes
And when all is said and done
The night will weave into my body
Making the brain addled boy
Dream a good little dream