Callow Son

I wrote it in a dream, and it sounded like Keats,

but I don’t rhyme, and I can’t sing, so the music

was mute, and I called to the sky, for inside its

heart, was a night to forget, and reason for hate;

once, when I was younger, I remembered their

faces, withered skin of fearing idiots, lathered

in their own belief, judging and looking upon

me, on her, on he, and once was the last, I was

ignored from then, and they both died martyrs,

because it doesn’t matter, they are, after all, my

father’s life, not mine; in his memory, in history,

from time to ending light, dying sidesteps, one

locust alone, and the water rushes, and the sight

fades, and the matter still haunts, it shivers, it

magistrates over us, over him, over her, over he,

but I won’t try to forget it, I will satchel its heft,

and carry it to the moon, because of their hatred,

because of piety, I will hand their memory to a

golden statue, I will levy it, I will hold it as high

as the lighted dawn, because of them, because

of their spite, their malice, their judgment; quick

and deftly, I, Mercury, I praise them, worry in the

stead of their permissions, safe in a Grecian Urn,

these fucking idiots, satisfied with their ignominy,

I will heave them into this corpus, inject them

where they were absent, hit each letter hard and

true, like a gunslinger, liker it mattered to them,

that I am forgotten, like he, like her, unlike them.

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~ by Shawn M. Young on April 5, 2017.

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