Inheritance, a Poem

Hard to recall, the games of youth,
Not of bat nor ball, but fear, mistruth.

N’er seen nor read, the rulebook exists.
Throughout generations it cries, “Persist!”

Practice makes perfect, repetition the guide
We learned to dance and perform with pride.

But now the coach, I find instead
Angry wounds of fear and dread.

I played them well, as a good son should
Denying all for the greater good.

But now I find I haven’t the voice;
The game did steal my very choice

Perhaps I’ve fallen from mother’s grace
For not completing the started race

But choice. I’ll reclaim the forgotten prize,
The joy, the love, in unspoiled eyes

Bury the whistle, forget the rules
Love instead, unconditional tool!

So when new progenitor, the game recalls,
Will cherish the time of bats and balls.

Leave a Reply