Epiphany

Vanity.

The young boy in me has
Been lost with the wind,
Carrying with it traces
Of my tainted childhood.

On those days when
Mother would read us to sleep
She'd say
There'd be days
We'd find comfort in the arms of another.

Perhaps If she remembered
To mention
That every girl was once a mother
Trained in the art of birthing certain emotions,
Destructive to the opposite gender.

Maybe then naive boys like us
Would have been open to the irony,
That boys, or little men like us,
Could end up wound up- in
The open arms of tragedy.