Tuesday, April 28, 2015

The Bad Son

Like the helpless
roots I crush,
with her gift,
they bleed tears
for the deceased,
my soul...

Boiled and strained,
a pale, lifeless
piece of ginger;
it adds spice,
yet the bad son leaves;
a bitter taste, all that's left...

That bad son
I can never be,
but the bad son,
indeed, I really am!

Pic courtesy: One Bad Son, Canadian rock band

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