Mezcal

I’m so sorry that I was not your mother. If I was your mother you would have been so loved. Held in the arms of joyous light. Never would this story’s plight, the world unfurled before our eyes. A pure demise. Of nation sitting peaceful under a night sky. If I was your mother, the world would have been warm. So much laughter and joy, nothing would harm. I can’t imagine the stain. The soul-stealing pain that the little boy, you must have seen and believed and the formulation of thought quickly taught that you lived in a cruel, unjust world. Is this why you now decide no one will get the best of you? Is this why you do not hide nor shy away from taking back the world? Was it because so early in life all that strife wracked your little body with fear? Oh, dear Mr. Mezcal , if only I’d been your mother, perhaps the torture of unwrit youth would not within your heart imbue ascription to such fealty against that world that seemed so cruel.