Sitting under the rosy dusk
I smile the smile of the corn
and husk... ashes to ashes
and dust to dust...
I think not. Yet I must.
Helix of heathens
is in my soul
writhing and wheeling
with the art of the droll,
my ancestors were characters
in my own special book,
the begats and begotten
by hook or by crook.
I feel their dear presence
as I sit by a brook, or read a
strange book.
I feel, I know, but for now
I must go...
forgetting the seeds
that they had to sow.
An organic garden is hard to grow.
Peeling the layers of beliefs and doubt,
worming my way to the Sun like a sprout,
I carry their burdens, yet shed all their skins
of the perilous dreams of ridiculous sins.
The only sin, is not living life to its fullest bloom.
eviL is the reverse of Live, in this ghost filled room.
I love them and smile, I am here, they are there...
in the color of my eyes, skin, character, and hair.
Yes, I am ancestrally aware.
But here is the the joke and a ruse and a jest,
I am here as a genetically honored guest,
no matter what I do they are cheering
somewhere
saying we are planning a party just for you
Be cause... WE CARE!
