The first step I took, give or take,
your sorry eyes could never relate.
For what I bestowed upon you, son;
it’s memories would be jeweled in crowns.
But you mistook my spitting shine
as discontent for aching eyes.
As if mirrors didn’t pierce enough;
As if reflections hadn’t heard enough cries
Your thoughts of remorse
dwell in forks
avalanched in snow.
For every step forward
numbs your limbs.
For every step back
cuts away kin.
For pure blood wished
what inbred snow washed.
Aching kin kissed, yet
aching kin lost