Letters written in fetters - 2

Written by: David Smalling

So dear son,
                  A man on crutches is a broken man
                  A hip hop existence
                  Is not accidental, for the composition
                  Is a race broken by levels of conditions
                  We are a bunch of Icarus
                  Celebrating on wax feathers in the sun.
                  My father, and his father
                  And all the fathers of our fathers
                  Including your father
                  Is Daedelus.
                  It is cunning how every father is also a son.
                  Son, if you remember nothing,
                  Remember this,
                  For the minotaur that ate the children
                  Ate the parents of tomorrow, 
                  And children are sacrificed today
                  By the children of yesterday
                  Blame then is not in us but in our history
                  Of reading books
                  And believing lies
                  As if they could be validated as myth.
                  But what was our need to believe in the first place
                  Who invented our need
                  What necessity mothered so many broken sons?   
                   
Son,
                   They say there are so many things I am supposed to teach you
                   Things none of our fathers taught their sons
                   Then I wondered why should they insist on a delightsome impracticality
                   It was in the book, I saw words glinted from the pen
                   A stroke flashing from a sword invisible
                   There it was, condition enough for all response
                   Fathers separated into anxieties and vulnerabilities
                   Love reduced to bonds broken, and we the sum of division
                   Ruled, ridiculed, needing cohesion, attention, affirmation, validation
                   Pining after beanstalks
                   Calling the father in heaven strange name
                   And we no longer Oedipus
                   Leaving neither beanstalk nor ladder
                   For we with wax have substituted angels
                   Persecuted fathers who believed they were hunters
                   And that minotaurs are common food not eucharist.
                   Sorry, son. I was throwing out the things in book
                   To make room for our conversation
                   We almost vanished too if it was perfect sterilization.