Dear parents, I forgive you my life, Begotten in a drab town, The intention was good; Passing the street now, I see still the remains of sunlight.
It was not the bone buckled; You gave me enough food To renew myself. It was the mind's weight Kept me bent, as I grew tall.
It was not your fault. What should have gone on, Arrow aimed from a tried bow At a tried target, has turned back, Wounding itself With questions you had not asked.
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