The man I am

“It was never my choice”
Dribbling lips to mottle mothers slaked eye,
Bent to her, empty like a hard voice.
A dream opened up by his broken lullaby.

A ring to blindly cycle in my mind
entering me into cascading dunes of nothing-
Asleep when I awoke:
My fathers son.

The moon he lay.
A lantern to hang over the metallic nights,
Covering the spittle dried in thirst
over the mouths they cannot feed.
We were his stars. Spun.
Frozen in circle; moths clung
To an existence in the face
turned from the sun.

He loved us to forget.
To repay.
He loved like there was no man
behind his front;
behind the lives he took,
behind the misconception we manifest
In his blood sent eyes in
the way we treat those we
never let ourselves look at.

So fierce was that need
to love,
That it could never be true.

There is a door ajar
in the candlelit shimmies
of mind sets sloping
against the notion of a horizon passed.

All that we come from,
Take it away.
For like a stump grow forgotten
to mar the ground that
gnarls in itself,
Below roads built
To keep us in our own escape.
Culminate and fester.
Oh Dead Sea, we are residue.
The fickle hearts grown
by breaking the strong.
Plagued by this disease
Passed hand to hand
Until needed.

Stolen.
The person that could have been.

What would you do?
When your only home is but in you
and dust settles on tangents of the past
With crops lost to the drought blown east?
The slow suffocation of the heart by a mind
wavering like its beliefs,
Planted and soiled,
to bring a man down.

What if whatever you did;
Means nothing
when the world recycles a lie
and change remains real.
And I stand here-
My fathers son.
With opaque eyes staring down
the minutes in between
soundless heartbeats,
Throbbing fingertips
Curling round fathers gun.

Each victim becomes the same.
The curves and contours
press out of your past
and onto your cheek.
You feel again.
Begin to.
But you can never let yourself.
In doing so he would scold you
and you would focus again…
and his face would breathe in another’s
That looked familiar.
They all do.
They are him.

Hold your gaze,
As it mottles to blind all of you.
You have cried enough
to feel the hollow in your soul
rushing through a downpour
on rickety roofs that flood the muse
of a dream opened up.

This man I am,
It was never my choice.

Shadows uncast

These roots run underground.

Dark and bound.

Deep and Wound.

Under the fretful sea,

Of both you and me-

And our wayward philosophy.

 

These roots have veins;

Veins lined with unencumbered histories.

These roots have rivers;

Rivers that end in your mysteries.

 

Yet these roots;

They wither and make no sound-

With backs hunched like a mound,

When forced into our calloused dives-

Where no essence is to be found.

And we? We are simply the hound,

Cankering their hallowed ground.

 

We can shape them,

Twist them and mould them.

We can harness the beauty of patience-

And see it in their form.

Instead:

Instead we make them mourn.

 

Make them look up to an empty sky.

Empty of their sisters-

For whom they searched for

And found nothing more –

Than a listless breeze,

Blowing at a phantom core.

 

How would you like to be-

-Immovable-

Immovable in your past-

No shadow of yours to be cast,

Slowly starving from the unrelenting fast.

Forced to see –

Leaves not coming into green,

Losing their sheen.

While you lay…

Forever unseen?

 

Centuries of secrets they may keep;

And yes they may weep-

But don’t you be fooled-

Because these roots-

Ha-ha these roots run deep.