Happiness is a newborn child

Written in the softest pastels 

Ever stitched by crippled hands.

You try your hardest to hold it,

Not to upset it,

Simply obey and soothe it.

You pray for it never to mature

And never leave you,

Alas, you might become

Nothing more than a nostalgic mother.

 

Sadness is the trouble child

You prayed you would never birth.

Its greedy arms flail through the

Padded swaddling sheets

And you spend your days

Trying to control it,

Crying out, asking God

How He ever thought you strong enough

To raise it

Past its blistering infancy.

 

Two twins,

Born one after another,

Both equally yours.

 

So you hold them tight to your bosom,

And, in the peace of the lullaby night,

Watch them sleep in your arms,

Blocking our time and phantoms

From their innocent dreaming heads

Until you, too, fall asleep.