by The Cowl Editor on February 15, 2018
Poetry
by David Martineau ’18
You grow on me like a coat of fur, but offer me no warmth.
And sometimes all I would like to do is shave you off,
But I cannot, for you are my children.
Before, when I was whipped by fire and scarred by ice,
When my skin blistered and burned and burst open with molten sores,
The pangs of birth that brought me out from the bowels of the void,
I thought of you, and could endure that pain.
For you were going to save me, improve me
Take what little I had and make it new,
Like the acorns that spawn new forests
After fire has devastated them.
But instead of building, you burn,
Instead of feeding my beauty, you consume it.
Instead of loving me, you take me for granted.
Instead of giving me Life, you bring me closer to Death.
I wish, sometimes, that I could be rid of you,
That I could return to the torments of my youth, and forget you.
But I cannot, for you are my children.