.

.

Small men and pitiful women, my parents raised.
No one can blame them, they have been through so many,
so little themselves.

Their hopes grow by the volume of mischief
dropped carelessly like breadcrumbs from their pockets.
That poor they are.

Their beauty is saved by great portions of liquid kryptonite
drunk every morning before breakfast.
But it works.

Solemnly speaking,
gratefully thanking,
truthfully advocating,
honestly apologising,
full heartedly enjoying,
never told, never saw, never wanted to know how.

Standing in motion on a rolling staircase,
Escher’s masterpiece for the masses on a universal scale.
How nice.
 
Kissing in despair for a compatible pair of lips,
when all lips share the same amount of bitterness.
Worth trying.

Regardless, we raise the new breed
always in medieval times,
worried we’ll see them build Renaissance.

Why couldn’t have been us?