A boy holds hands

With his mother

Strolling towards the beach

And the boy with sadness asks

"Why are we the heretics

Oh why are we the heretics now?"

And a breeze sways

And among the rolling waves

The question stays till he's home

At home the boy watches TV

Brightly colored programs

Nostalgia through IV

Dinner's silence is bold

Mother always does what she is told

Daddy is always right, see?

Sister's back from school

Sister likes her privacy

At night Mommy drives away

The boy's fears from under his bed

Downstairs Daddy leers

From over his paper

Scanning imperfections

Ridicule is this bastard's hobby

Months go by

Daddy no longer loves Mommy

The boy is sad

Mother's glad

Years become pain

Trite, devoid, sterile, and dead.

The boy's sorrow gets worse

He frowns, fuming, silence

He is still the heretic now