When a parent dies, their children
has a final choice of what to miss;
more of the life they always wanted,
which was reliable and consistent
and life was that good it made them
want even more, the life that made
more of the same readily available.
Or the parents can promise a life
to the child that they can never deliver.
Where the more the child has to trust
in what the parents say should be there,
the more it remained around the corner,
and the more corners the child turns,
the more they miss the milestones of life.
The future that was meant to be
never was, and it never existed,
all trace of it slowly disappears.
With the death of the parents,
the non-events of the child's lives,
and the lies they have been held to,
the end result will be doubly, triply, empty.
Such an emptiness will find truth in cynicism.
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