Poverty's Progeny

He was a very familiar face in the neighborhood.
Known to me was he from my childhood.
His son and I shared the same birthday.
Celebrated in both our houses was this great day!
Our lifestyles varied to a very large extent.
While I lived in a mansion, his house was a tent.
His hut made a home and my house, an asylum.
Aristocratic that they were, my dad and mum!
Ego clash and ‘superiority’ fight were a regular affair.
What ensued was an unprintable verbal warfare.
How much I hated my birth and birthday?
Not a day, I was happy and gay.
That cobbler’s son was a blessed child.
He was not a witness to temper, dangerously wild.
That cobbler and his wife filled their home with love and laughter.
Hatred and vengeance nurtured at my home were very sinister.
Their nurturers had no time for me, their own son!
By opulence and affluence, they tried covering their sin.
I don’t want these expensive toys and games, I screamed.
Thou know not my unhappiness and agony, I cried.
They were least affected by my sorrow and grief.
Selfish and self centered to the core was their description in brief.
Their attitude was spiting towards the cobbler and his poverty.
Only if they cared, seen could be the happiness in his progeny!