He wasn’t adopted but made,
Not in a womb but psyche.
My son was a misborn,
I never met his father.
I was still married to my past,
Yet I nurtured my son.
Who feeds on my thoughts,
Sparing nothing at all.
While I drained every day.
He bloomed to a manchineel,
He bore the fruits of my toil,
And the apples made me blind.
I sought peace in my past,
That I wished never existed.
I untangled the cobwebs,
To fine, shiny, silk threads.
And I spun new thoughts,
That kept alive my past.
My son fed on the thoughts,
Blinding me day by day.
I was reduced to two eyes,
Bright, that could not see.
The beauty and vibrance,
Just a breath away.
I was reduced to an ego.
To keep my son alive.
I weaved new shiny palls.
At the cost of my idyll,
My son was an evil,
Who killed his mother.
Guilt is my lucky bastard,
Though I never dated Sin.
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Interesting allegory there. What a read!
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Your poem, “Bastard Mine,” is truly captivating. The way you weave the allegory of a misborn son with the emotions tied to past experiences is both profound and poignant. The imagery of the manchineel tree and the metaphor of being blinded by the apples are striking and powerful. Your exploration of guilt, identity, and the inescapable nature of past burdens is deeply moving. I particularly appreciated the way you depicted the interplay between nurturing destructive thoughts and the loss of self. It’s a beautifully crafted piece that resonates on many levels. Well done!
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