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.
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.