Before the moment of conception
mother and father conspire for perfection,
a prodigy of each their person
made of the hopes and dreams and everything
they both wished to be.
They continue with this perception
ignoring the many little contradictions,
denying that there could ever be someone
different than who they planned to see.
As father and mother, so too the child
holds on to their desire, no matter how wild,
that the couple from whom it was sired
are heroes and idols and anything
the child's dared believe.
We persist like this, somewhat beguiled,
try'n to retain the image undefiled
of parents as the Elysians which no one
could be while enswathed in mortality.
Struggling along ever looking back,
never measuring what we have but what we lack.
We deaf'n our minds to the very fact
that there is growth and change and something
more to what we see.
As smitten fools blindly we react
when the insipid dream falls to attack,
shielding our fancy and asking that everyone
please conform to their effigy.
