Firstborn

The years will pass
This too, like grass
Will dry and blow away
A dream will stir
The present blur
Of such near yesterdays
And wakened by
The surface sky
Of your subconscious need,
You’ll say my name
Or bloodline's claim
And know you are my seed.
O daughter dear
I fear I’m near
The front row midnight shift
I didn’t know
The random codes
To thank you for this gift;
But Time will wage
Her wars and gauge
Whatever love remains
And I will wave
From some framed grave
And we will look the same.

Devoid of hope, she prays and copes
a dance of marionettes.

This was not how she took her bows
when youth still laid the bets;

and fractured here amongst her peers
and strangers dressed in gray

she must resign to brokered time
as talents peel away.