His was a hatred not to be assuaged
A malice formed by mother’s twisted love
His billowed clouds of youth consumed by rage
The conflagration was like searing gloves
He blindly wore them; his desired revenge
A youth without restraint will channel hate
How could the boy have any other bent
He struggled fiercely seeking an escape
A mother’s love consoles with no revile
A cool and quiet river through a child’s hell
The hand that rears must not defile
Because of pain his anger would not quell
The rearing hand will leave its mark deeply
Be gentle for a child is yours briefly