Son Is The Darkest Seed, He Is Fickle In Faith

Son Is The Darkest Seed, He Is Fickle In Faith

A Poem by PoeT4994

“Lover of things,

won’t you agree

how the winter could bring

the darkest spring?

With hell on your face,

dirt on the walls

in the back of the place,

you grew and complained.”

Fickle and fake.

I never looked into the eyes of a broken man until I found you.

I never found you.

Or you never found me.

In the mirror.

Like an eye bother.

Like the line you see and you can’t get it out.

And your friends just keep saying it’s not there.

It never will be.

A person to look up to.

A good person to look up to.

A strong neck to look up with.

I’ll never find him.

Albeit, he is here.

Somewhere in broken.

In shack-ville.

Under a bridge.

The one that will matter to me,

he is somewhere hid.

Under a facade of glass and rum and wits in but he’ll look dumb.

He will not be dumb.

He’ll be Da Vinci.

He will kiss me.

On the forehead.

Like a son.

And he’ll spread like wild fire.

To teach me.

The best people are sometime homeless.

And the homeless, are sometimes just hobos.

And the hobos homes are sometimes people like me that ask questions as if his dirty finger nails and the way he breathes coffee will teach me that it’s going to smell like burnt f*****g paper in the morning from rubbing myself raw trying to find the good parts.

And trying to find that the good parts are God.

And trying to remember that God’s are the good parts.

Of me.

Of them.

Of women and of men.

Sometimes the junkies are something.

And sometimes the junkies will jump me,

and my bones will shake dust,

because I know these people have what I need.

I’ve never looked broken into the broken eyes of a broken man in order to fix myself,

but I know,

when I do,

the guy you just pass by on the corner will have the answers.

I’ll tell him I want to be a squater like him too.

And he’ll tell me,

no matter how hard the rain taps a sheet of cardboard beneath will keep knees clean on the street and to pray for the prey and the prayers of the players will shame and bring fair to the game…

I’ll ask him what it’s like trying to be an artist…

And he’ll tell me with that fucked up look on his face

“of fickle faith,

cynics that seethe,

how their children are cursed,

cursed to believe.

It’s like marrow without bone.

To live in a house with no home.

Where the son is the darkest seed.

He crawls with the curs in the weeds.”


© 2011 PoeT4994



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Added on August 2, 2011
Last Updated on August 2, 2011