Exhibit
At home I sit, a glass of wine in hand,
Beside me sits my father, still alive.
He’s proud of all I’ve done, of where I stand,
He raised his son to be a man, watched me thrive.
My life is filled with beautiful roads to roam,
No choice can change what’s settled, sealed, and done.
I’m pure within, my thoughts are mine alone,
Behind me stands a mountain of all I’ve won.
I crave no gold; I’m wealthy in my soul,
No spite, no rot. What am I, some stray hound?
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I chose my family; I became their wall,
My will held firm as songs of triumph sound.
That’s how I pictured it: a perfect world,
No pain, no mistakes, no losses born of lies.
I made my choice. My whole world fell apart.
My father’s grave. I wept. I am the exhibit.
My wounds are mortal, steeped in poison’s sting,
My mood is madness, lust, a fevered thing.
I’m mortal; parasites of ritual breed inside.
My anger overflowed. An entire age has died.
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