Monday, September 17, 2012

Wounded Sons of Hunting Fathers

A malformed hand, bronze and bony fingered
can, with stealth steal the steam
Tis grasped by no one impossible;
No, this mold-infested spider-boned set
of fingers has the power to wrest,
the longings of the heart, so impenetrable.

These longings are, of course, a castle,
stowed up in the parapet's tower.
In a chest on a covenant document is written
the commandment of love and of nurture.

The fathers in the land have gone hunting
and forget the nurturing decree
to wrap their sons in masculine prose
fueling their hearts with good steam.

Alas, for the hunting, and gems in the forest
enchanted the patriarchs' lore
they soon forgot the parapet's gold
the scripture they fail to adore.

Sons of the fortress toil rotting
their hearts fortifications and wraiths
With anger and fear and bold plotting
Crestfallen they hide their demise

This hypocrisy steeps like a well
in a dark murky swamp and a mire
It's located just beyond the forest
where gems are the fathers' desire.

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