Sins of the father
Despair to all
Patriarchy dies on blades of grass
With wrist outturned and lined with trickling blood
Where once I knelt and then I stood
Sodden I regret
Sudden I forget
I’m a shattered, splattered rind
A rotted fruit plucked from a basket
Tossed in to feed the prisoners
For rot begets rot, and I am nothing
For that’s what I forgot.
Insubstantial muttering and bereaved ravings aside,
I listen to the glistening words
From silvered tongue
Whispered to slivered, wailing moon
Where Gods fall vacant, feasting on swooning spoons
We dine on dirges, forgiving those that keep on living
Giving nothing back, for nothing takes us back
To physical plane where sighs and cries may remind us of the pain of home
For home is just a tomb, cushioned to hide the nature of our lives
That grave before us is where we climbed from at the start
That grave is home, that fateful, fatal bed we can’t depart
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