The Yoke

We wear this burden
It splinters the nape of our children
Imprints of rusted bolts
On their flesh pure as porcelain
We march down the avenues
Our hands soft upon their backs
We pray they ask no questions
Or give us a generation to react
Time enough to build courage
And the invention of kinder words
If we must obliterate hearts
Give us silence while we work
Tiny shoulders bruised
By the weight their father gave
We have to withstand the darkness
Only to witness their sparkle fade
All those little giggles
And that squeak in their voice
Perhaps Jesus is endeared enough
To grant them resilience to maintain his joy
Maybe he watches them from a cloud
And taps his finger to the beat
Of the power in their hearts
And the patter of their cherubic feet
Maybe he swoons to their grace
Maybe he laughs at their spunk
Maybe he smiles at their mild nature
And on their sugary breath he gets drunk
Should this all be true
Should God have any mercy left
Lift the yoke off of the children
And wrap the ghosts around my neck