The Cycle

Hands blooming from suffering,
A useless body carried ‘till sufficiency.
Riding bikes uphill went, rushes of sweat and wonder:
No thought of TV’s guns and powder.
Pure bliss
Soon downhill; stranger’s gaze obscene became,
Playground closed, present weights like hell.
Heavens in credit score, studies and mindless paths
Broken forevermore. Restored in debt
To the bone, fool’s pride cause I’m a grown citizen of
Puppet land.

Brand-new bow and tie,
Working as per manual,
Nothing out of sync.
Organic copy of me,
Fruit of pressure and pleasure,
The house's backyard.
Gossip comes plus stale,
Kitchen cuts deep and bloody,
Possess no control.

As the furrowed cloaks of age lay their nails on me, ghostly places linger in memories I never had,
Wishes I haven’t wished.
Visits of my children as seldom as the elders catching the word on the tip of their tongues.
Regrets none, or so I want to say.
At least I have freed myself from:
The cycle.