The heart takes the blade
For kindness
And for hate.
The sun shines
A new day only
For one to fall
To his knees
And either break
Or pray
As a corpse will lie there
In the end
Either way.
Born on the edge of
A Yin-Yang
As her first words
To him
Were not of love,
But of hellfire and flame.
How can one love another
Who birthed something else
That day?
How can one call another
Mother
When she carves hopes
And dreams
And banishes them
Into dirt
To be washed away
By her rain
That prescribes guilt
Although blameless
And yet, blamed
While within five minutes,
As his ears: deafened
From the screaming voice he heard,
She says she loves him.
Is there any other irony—
Tell me—
That is more so absurd?