Ashuri

One of my parents was the driver, the other the passenger. One focussed and ambitious, one idle and overlooked. I watched the wreck from the backseat. The highway of chaos before us. One of my parents was a microphone and the other a pen. The limelight I belonged too, led to finding security in the written word. One of my parents was a swan, forceful and proud. The other a broken horse, submissive and enduring. Both longing for freedom. One of my parents I silenced, the other I overwhelmed. The novel bleeds distrust and oppression, words spat as bullets in a war that still has not ended. One was a hug, the other a smile. Each someh