Are obligations, not discharged,
Merely not recognized?
If so convinced, why not move on
Without corroborating testimony?
Am I merely a simpleton
Hoping for a polar shift
That might square the account,
And stamp paid to my righteous claim?
At the age of 7, I could wish myself dead,
Justified in imagining the devastation
Wreaked on my suspect parents,
Who bought me clothing for my birthday.
Clothing! I could not then, and can not now
Suggest a less caring gift.
Still, I always returned their calls.... always!
Until they were silent, always.
My sins are of commission, not omission,
Fully confessed, after a fashion,
Or is failure just another gift that keeps on giving,
As the victim holds fast to his claim?
But why such entitlement?
Is the scab I irritate a medal,
An award for devotion, in a minor key,
Whose name is crafted deep within?
Better to find a character flaw elsewhere.
A psychologist who practices astrology
Could find the alignment that explains
How the faults lie in the stars.
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