Potentiality: Part One -9/28/04

She kills the child that only lived in dreams,
In meditations on a Sunday Morn.
And isn’t Life more tragic than it seems,
When Frail Potential’s killed before it’s born?

His voice was made from all her laughter’s sound.
His eyes were made from all the sunny days.
His hair and hers from gold were likewise wound,
And oft about his lips a smile did play.

My little boy, who never lived an hour,
Whose lungs were never meant to take a breath,
You left before your fragrant smell went sour
And, as you never Lived, so: no True death.

His name, so fair, was “Hope I place in Love”
His name was fit alone for God above.