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He is your son,
You birthed him. You watched as he came out squealing - same beat as your screaming.
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He is your son
Your first born. Your first joy.
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He is your son,
Yours in all but name. He’s got your eyes, your hair, and even your pride.
But he can never have your name.
That’s okay though, you can’t have your own name either.
At least he’s going true. At least his name - and, technically yours too, now - speaks of honor.
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He is your son,
So you teach him your words. Teach him of family, duty, and honor.
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He is your son,
Your first born, and now you watch as he goes to rescue your second and third.
How proud you must be.
For he is your son,
And, really now, you should’ve seen this coming. For you never taught him the order.
Was honor first, he may have thought?
You just might curse that wretched name.
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Oh your poor son, son in all but name,
Who still holds honor up high, thinking the world a noble game.
Even his father left that for shame; there is no honor in that name.
Just as in that game.
Would he have stayed true to course, had you not stressed to him your shame?
Your shame for a son that was his brother, in all but name?
Would he have foregone a marriage, foregone his own son’s true name?
Speak to me of honor; watch what remains.
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He was your son.
And you were overcome.
Screaming to the same beat as his sputtered bleeding.

Joan_of_Arc Sat 08 Jun 2019 04:37PM UTC
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OfAMind Sun 09 Jun 2019 03:19AM UTC
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Joan_of_Arc Sun 09 Jun 2019 03:22AM UTC
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