Wednesday, April 2, 2014

Genes

I found a crying child, lost and forlorn,
In broken brown shoes and tattered old clothes
Like a plastic bag floating down long roads.
He’s the child who should have never been born.
His parents look at him, eyes filled with scorn:
The color of his hair, shape of his nose,
Are the qualities they wished to dispose
Of while he was still unformed—an unborn.

He is who he is, he can’t be reborn
His genes are his forever, can’t be changed.
Love pieced together what has now been torn,
It’d be better if he had stayed unborn.
His colors, his shapes, were all prearranged
By a force of life that can’t be estranged.