Reading Time: 2 minutes
So, they had responsibility,
for some kind of morality,
but when it came to shove
was that all there was to love?

And for a child what is love?
Is it just for  being certain,
of regular meals on the table,
or being safe behind the curtain?

If security was all there was of love,
what could have been missing
from their own upbringing,
apart from what was above?

How could they know anything
of the tactile substitute for love;
for when it became certain
what was behind the curtain.

And now it was the season
for the abandonment of reason,
to allow what was permissible
against what was inadmissible.

The superficial family face,
just lacking in any disgrace;
without a jot of reticence in
the violating of innocence.

There was not a conversation;
no language for such an outrage,
so never a way to assuage
such a deep bone pain.

What’s the point of regretting?
With the habit of forgetting
memories become old fears,
in the passage of the years.

Every dog will have his day,
and all things shall pass away;
for tomorrows yesterday –
shall never be like today.

Or so they say! 




©D G Moody 2022