These misfit puzzle pieces
of awkward childhood memories
to this day, leave me to ponder
from time to time, questions
I could never answer
about us, questions
whose tears I can only restrain
from flooding, but could never
explain
Tell me - Are you not
my mother\'s child?
Did you not prepare
the womb for me?
Did I not carry this baton
of life over, from your gentle palm?
Why then, does the air we breathe
always feel at odds between us?
What exactly, unsettles it?
Are you not cut from the same
umbilical chord, that became mine?
Sister mine, do we share an unspoken lie
or did I suckle the same nipple
you left behind?
Why then, did your trail fade
with the misty meadow?
When did you disappear
before me? And will you ever return?
See, missing what we should be
though vividly I recall
your silent resentment
I was a child, as were you
and I cannot say why
ours resembles an ever dying flower
on an eternal winter, why
we are scattered, torn pieces
of what was once a letter
from home - I cannot say
Does it matter - should it matter
who my, or your father, is?
If that\'s what it\'s about
Should our needing each other
not surpass that?
Who is to blame?
And what existence will blame
afford our offspring, outside these islands
we\'ve helped build, and let garner mass?
Are you not my mother\'s child?
Why are we so apart?
Why is it so hard to forge
a bond of blood?
That child in me has to accept
but does not understand why
I am not your true keeper
for though you are far away
hand in glove
you are still a gift to me