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Contemplating an old oil painting of a boy...
I don’t see murder there -
not in those true colors brushed
a lifetime gone. I didn’t see it then.
But my demise must have been lurking,
shrouded by those sullen eyes and
pouting mouth -
Artist-captured so well.
Dormant all these years.
I simply saw the boy I loved,
my only son, postured and proud.
I saw my fishing buddy, fan of my fantasy
bedtime stories, my one living legacy -
unaware he would one day annihilate me.
Oh, it wasn’t a real killing –
no gun, no knife, no poison,
no bludgeoning blows.
And he never sought revenge
with diatribes,
recriminations,
or accusations –
in fact he said nothing.
He merely shut me out
of his life.
I became dead
to him.
When you abandon the mother
you forsake
the children too.
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