Delusions X Poem by Morgan Michaels

Delusions, Delusions, come running to me, now-
whey-faced, whimpering, simpering, blind,
spastic, phthistic, small and spavined-
how do I love you? You shall see how.
You are my children, you are my kind
rightful offspring of my mind:
still, you cover me like the dame in the shoe-
buttons to feed and mouths to sew;
wore you and tore- I watched you grow.
Where should I hither? What should I do
without your distractions, then, my dears.
What should I have done, then, all these years?
When you are grown and must fend for your own
deafening silence- who shall I phone?