A Filial Piece
He always would complain he’d had things hard.
Self-preservation, if not true necessity,
was why he was best pleased to wash his hands of me.
He guessed I’d learn his story, hence the curse
on me... Mine’s a partial view of my father,
of course, who feared exposure and therefore
wasted his life rewriting history.
In time we must accept the past. Far rather
call it quits: it isn’t worth being bitter,
dwelling on lies. Instead one tries to escape from more
typecasting - careful not to end up worse
off, just his understudy, a sad kind of bastard.
Page(s) 62
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