A slave in want of favor’s gaze;
For years I bled and lived as glass.
To hate and love in cycled phase;
I yearn to sever kinfolk clasps.
How can I make a father’s cot,
In lack of template never wrought?
From seed to man I had you not,
Yet guilt is felt for pity thoughts.
Your ego bursts in mask of shame
To distance where your input not.
Blind on where a child’s heart blames;
The jones of time was all I sought.
I free your role from sights ahead,
but bethink on the maker’s bed.
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