Real Man
The growing pains
Rough hands foreign amongst dime, Earned their throne through paths unknown to me. A thin veil which conceals, Like a viper slithering low, shedding its outer layer to what suits him best. My once kind seed, begone with all unwanted ways; she detests. All for nought, yearning for feather-light touches that may never grace. No son of mine is man.
An acrostic poem where the speaker (a mother) talks about her child who has grown up to become a man she does not recognise. The short poem explores the disappointment of a parent towards their child who has lost their way. And the mother fears he may never grace and change for the better. Now, his hands are rough, though the mother suspects that those qualities were not through honest work, but through violence. Ways unknown to me. She speaks about those qualities he possess that he prides himself on, but as a woman the mother knows other dime do not look for that show of power but seek kindness and gentle love. Published date:
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