I thought he spit on my wardrobe;
One or two spoilt genes.
A life of cleaning out closets,
Relentlessly racing chromosomes.
The thought of dancing to a ladder;
A reality that causes migraines.
But aren’t ladders safe?
The flexibility lies within strands.
Awareness unlocks life and free will?
Or is it just a subset of my plight?
When does it ever end?
Who gets the non-zero sum game?
Does it ever end?
What gives weight to these questions?
Maybe I should wake up,
Clear the fogged up glass;
Grapple with the sad realisation
That the man in the mirror is my father.