Gods and Lovers

I often wonder
if my imagination will hate my existence;
will sob when it sees how my fellow humans have become;
will swallow me whole
and throw me out on Sorrow Land

I imagine that fathers are born with bigger hearts
and everyone is
looking for love, just like your desperate heart
and they kiss and hug and talk
for hours without checking their time
or thinking of how long
they will star at the window shield
in hopes they will be racing with the passing cars

In my dreams, I see my mother beautiful and young
railing against my father
saying he’s nothing like a good man

I see my father
washing his black hands
after a long working day
full of cement, plaster and concrete
and I wonder if he, one day, would be part
of the people’s houses he builds
if he enjoys his job
as much as he despises being a father

I wonder if his feelings are as conspicuous
as his boney face
that I will no longer see the wounds through his heart
like the hollow on his cheeks when he looks down

I see people
bearing no malice toward their creator
for making them heartless or loveless
I see them standing up
no longer kneeling down
to ask for His forgiveness
I see myself, standing with them

happy

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