Specters

What is the architecture of a life?
Not the bricks and mortar of cells,
The branches of arteries and veins,
Sinews, muscles or bone that made you.......
The gene machine.
The big bang with which every life begins.
I am grateful to the sperm donor;
To the warm wet nest that nurtured me,
Until the time I made my first appearance.
It is the only time you have centre stage,
The star.
For me though there were no loving arms
Gentle words,
Lullaby,
Having made me, the two principles left
Exit stage right.
They sadly could not stick around,
To mess me up or be of any influence,
But they made me, gave me life
The architects if not the builders,
That was left to kinder hands.
So why are always specters at my feast?

P H Brookes Copyright 2011

poem by Paul Brookes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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