Your stories are
Incomprehensible, layered in
Multiplicity, a mixture
Of Strange, Strong Sounds.
Yet, you persist,
These are you stories. Remember, Re
Member us, the fathers, through these...
Your words sprout as
Fruit that entices and complicates. Have
(you, they, I, we?)
ever cut into a pomegranate?
It is hard to open, the contents
to Hold. The seeds
are sour and they stain lips crimson,
Then leave me ashamed, a spectacle
To the timid.
But you never
Cared. You sat in shame, mouths colored
Red. You laugh, then begin telling stories
For the timid.
Sit down, our sons,
our daughters, while we, the fathers,
reveal our common roots and
mold your futures.
Because we took up your cause, long
before you were you. We ask you
to go and Do...
But do what? You
branched out and divided until
stories became the term that holds
all the options.
I want to Un
Ravel you, open through your tall tales
Understanding. I taste the first seeds.
They are sour.