Lament for Empty Childhood

Didn’t have a happy childhood.
The guilt of such a statement runs
but deep within my veins,
and only now is expelling.
I know that dad went in
to married life expecting one
of ancient wife and wifery,
a daemon of the kitchen sink,
a genius of childhood.
Such was his misfortune, then.

The breakdown of his given bride
left him and I inside an empty house.
A strong foothold in time, perhaps,
but what is time when stripped of entropy?
I cannot see a “harmfully” so lasting in
the modern age than watching telly
as it bleats, without a knowing hand
to guide you to the dining room,
to dress and feed and tell you that
you’re nine years old today.