I feel no remorse
for the way I feel
in this advanced state of pregnancy

to know myself
is the chastisement I reap
from sowing the seed of that tree,
of good and of evil
of which the root was good
of which the fruit was evil
in a world up-side-down
turned like an hour-glass
in the wake of it giving birth prematurely
until I finally arrived
at the age of innocence
when at last
the fruit is digested
to its final consequence

that I begot myself of myself,
no longer a son, nor a bastard,
the by-product of my own creating
ever waking to my senses
ever coming to
my own set of feelings.