You make poor gods,
precious children.
You were never intended
for that.

It saddens me to see your
veiled eyes, fumbling
around the dimmed world
once meant to be paradise
for my created ones.

I willed you into being
and built you for freedom,
and you used it like currency
to purchase mortality,
favoring the bitter fruit
of death, chasing
fantasies of greatness
and the glory of self.

My sons, my daughters!
All that I had was yours.
But you surrendered your crown,
exchanging it for a fool’s hat.
Though I knew it would come
to this, it still grieved me
to watch you, as a parent
mourns a lost child.

There is nothing
I would not give
for your safe return.
So I gave everything.
And now I wait
for any sight of you
on the horizon.

Claire Juno, © 2019