the poetry of Charles Fry

17 September 1997

flesh of mortal man, immortal woman

Life is my father, and Death, my mother.
A strange coincidence, I've always thought,
that I, of all men, should be engendered
of such great, illustrious beings.
They have certainly been good progenitors,
each endowing me with a vital part of myself.

And I (or so I've always believed), I
have been a most faithful and dutiful child.
To father's arms I would always run, laughing gaily;
but to be drawn back to sweet mother's
breast, to suck into my impoverished soul the
bitter sorrow of pain, the sour agony of torment.

Copyright © 1997 Charles Fry