It is often that I think
What makes us
Who we are
The soul or the spirit
Chance or DNA.
My mother
And my father
Did everything they could
Loving and kind
Patient and generous.
Was it them
Or is it me
That makes me see
And understand.
Both of them
Were orphans
Tempered by depression
And war.
Yet somehow
They knew
How to give
And receive.
Loving me enough
To try
Giving me
The best they could
While they could.
Selfless
And sacrificial
They gave me
Their all.
Never able
To truly enjoy
All that they worked for
Decade after decade.
We quit
And we run
At the first signs
Of hardship.
The spoiled progeny
Of those who worked
And those who tried
Without any help
Until they died.
Today they are gone
But they will never
Be forgotten
Lifting me upon their shoulders
High above the world.
Yet many are those
Who mock with glee
The passing of the generations
Who conquered the world.
Seething with hatred
And barely veiled jealousy
Hissing and spitting
Vulgar and vile.
Always blaming others
But never questioning themselves
The fools of the end
Marching forward
Straight off a cliff.
Violently assaulting
And viciously accusing
Ever more childish
And ever more crude.
Let them go
And wallow in their hate
Drowning in their bile
Finished, forgotten
And fake.
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