ɪɴᴜʀᴇ [ᴘᴏᴇᴛʀʏ]

ɪᴠ. ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ

ꜱᴏɴ

From another mother. Your arms spread widely,
        longing for the parents that abandoned you.
Perhaps you were one or two.
Unripe; you spoke no words, yet, accepted the warmth of a family that
        did not know your birthday.

ʙʀᴏᴛʜᴇʀ

From another father. Your hand lay on my knee,
        testing my patience – you "weren't touching me".
Perhaps you were two or three.
Adjusting; you couldn't care less about reading, yet, earned the affection of a family that
        did not know your true potential.

ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅ

From another home. Your wrist lay beside mine,
        signing a pact – together, you and me, survive.
Perhaps you were four or five.
Suffering; silent screams, seeking
        help from a maze that divided us.

ᴍᴇᴍᴏʀʏ

From another side. My fingers brush my forehead,
        chest, left then right shoulder. I rely on hicks.
I was definitely six.
Mourning; no eulogy, no ceremony – no funeral.

In another life, perhaps, the rain won't
        have washed your name from the mud.
In another life, perhaps, the name I gave you would've
        never been written in wet soil.