Don’t fret for me, Father Abram;
I’m flying free without your family name.
You drilled me in its lore
Till it dropped me through the floor
Of its fancies and the folly of your claim.
Don’t mourn for me, Mother Mary;
I hate to be the heartache of your tears.
Your dreams for me were love
When we wished on stars above,
But I must redeem those fairy-feathered years.
Don’t cling to me, Christiana;
I need to soar my solitary way.
Your form felt warm and right
In the boozy blue of night;
Now I’ve been awakened by the break of day.
Ed Morris, 2025
This page copyright © 2025 Edward A. Morris. Created February 21, 2025. Last updated February 25, 2025.