Mother,
I write to you today
To tell you of myself.
I’m drifting out amongst
The wreck of wasted youth.
You see, my time was spent
In unlit rooms, and there
I made myself become
A spectre of the boy
You loved. When sunlight danced
Between the leaves of trees,
Still making art on lawns,
I watched it there, inside.
Somewhere between the boy and man,
I lost myself, and found instead
A beast of absent gratitude.
If sitting by the window sill,
And turning hands on numbered faces
Would chase back clouds from where they came,
I’d while away a million days,
And lose myself again, in vain.
It seems to me the mark of man
Appears to be regret of younger days.
I’m sorry for the way we have become.
Yours,
Your son.
jakeanthonyscott 