The Father's Lament

Something tore inside me
The day she took away my son
It seems it won't repair,
It won't even form a scar.
The casual cruelty strikes me dumb,
The way that it was done.

I can see that what is best for him
Should be what is done.
But who says what that is?
One thing's for sure: they never ask me.
And this obviously isn't it,
Because it's best for none,
Except for those who think this is fun,
Or at least, a well-paid job
The easy, slow, daily grind
Of people's lives into hard ground
From atop a big book of words to make it all
Everyone else's fault,
Or mine.

I'm sorry, son.
It's not right, it's very wrong,
But they won't give me a way
To be you and I.