Inevitable Losses

The child is not the father to the man,
only an impressionable embryo.

Casualties ooze between my fingers
like congealed blood,
unredeemable,
the little deaths of growing older:
the genuine smile now forced,
the sincere gaze now engineered,
the bright hope extinguished.

Is adulthood a capitulation,
a choice, or a deterioration?
Who knows?
I only know
the inevitable losses
we collect by living
are best accepted
until transformed
into a volume of forgiveness
equal to the innocence
they displaced.

Copyright © C.E Chaffin

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