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