Biafra of the mind is a wound like no other,
A wound that from the beginning slumbered
Unbeknownst, undisturbed, a pain referred
For a time when it burns white- hot.
It is children, us, born of our mothers
And mothers not our own,
Who were content to spawn an insidious suspicion
And nurture an all- consuming fear.
We are after all a reminder of the reality of
Happiness unattained, a beautiful horizon unreached.
We are the poorer cousins of hope and promise,
Beggars on the street hiding a crushing resentment.
