Because Each Footstep Has-Been A Bequest Poem by Mark Heathcote

Anything is possible it's been said
If we go on living until we're dead

I didn't ask to be born a child scorns.
Always with parents wanting to lock-horns

Create open new wounds on old scares
Trick tempers into venting unawares

Vacant young eyes follow a yellow moon,
Ask why the stars are so widely bestrewn.

What isn't possible—unrequited love?
Surely not every thought and feeling corrupts

Tears must have fallen blessed where they rest.
Since all our footsteps have been a bequest.