tadkil

Sons, made of happy flesh but the spirals were broken.
Some part of the helix unwound with a bitter twist.

The oldest cannot meet your eye
and flaps his arms when there is too much anything
Too much joy, too much sound, too much sad.

The youngest bites and I have held him
On concrete, snarling
He tried to bite out my throat

Both cry when they see themselves.

All I have for them are happy kisses
and love, unstoppered and poured from me
I end up empty. Drained.

The daily swing between darkness and light
The constant journey
Unbroken rhythm and daily curse

But they put their hands in mine
We walk on together, fearing my personal sunset.