When you crawled up out of the mine,
there was a hole where your brain had been,
and you tried to fill it up with moonshine,
but your son still went to war to get away from you.
You both knew that the smell of burning flesh
was part of a suit that would be ill-fitting,
but he had no future under the mountain,
or in the liquid pouring out of the still.
Under the stars at night, you studied him,
this creature you had made, and found him lacking.
You punished him for being solid,
with no formula that you could adjust.
You never loved him.
He smelled too much of fear.