you begin to tell me that
if your mother is CREATION
(you have her flaxen ringlets — that lustrous honeycomb color)
and your father is DESTRUCTION
(you have his coffee colored eyes— hollow and indescribably somber)
then you are a WAR between
two different anomalies:
an afferent cataclysm
that will inadvertently be
the worlds destruction
and you stare at me with
a look of bitter cynicism
(i have yet to see on you)
and i finally see you
for who you truly are
— i would rather have the blackest,
most bitter parts of you
than anything at all
