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Letter written in fetters - 7

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Below is the poem entitled Letter written in fetters - 7 which was written by poet David Smalling. Please feel free to comment on this poem. However, please remember, PoetrySoup is a place of encouragement and growth.

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Letter written in fetters - 7

Dear son,
              I have no prologue, nor epilogue, only dialogue
              That began when God's mirror was only man
              God's ultimate mind, his dream, his purpose
              The lump of clay in his hand, he hears his heart
              Pouring over structure after structure of his great design
              And we became as he intended, his cherished sons.
              I did not make you this way, and should doubt
              My efficacy to have ever made you at all. I can't resist
              Memories of my own heart beating over you
              When I held you cuddled to my love, new born
              Is growing up, growing away too? Then the empty nest
              Was the twin of your birth, my tragedy deferred
              For the now when the phone never rings, and we smile
              And say hello, for it is all a heart can hold now
              Grooming you, feeding you, buying your joy
              In boxes clustered like a room with toys ... these things
              Are so superficial to the estrangement we have with God.

             From that place of pain I would see, know, touch my life
             Like I have meant to touch yours over the walls
             Of many interventions and internecine strife, meet me
             Like a man and think, how could I take you on Moriah
             Unless in another way I had also died? Before we heard
             The bleating lamb that would bleat no more on the cross
             I had faith that you and I are more eternal than a knife
             Raised like a fiend against the ethics of civilization
             As if our best gift to God are dead children. You cannot
             Come down from that mount without understanding
             The way I understand how Oedipus blinded was the same
             But unlike Abram, no deity supervened in his pain.
            Every separation is another kind of death. Every love 
            A tragedy struggling to give birth to life again.
            I love you son, and always will remain, your father
            Longing for the same cross that always is redemption.

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