Aftermath Again
My son, speaking like a true griot,
A body of things rejected
By the sinister profile of language
Spoke one clear prophecy to the riot's
Heart, before he from this world was ejected
He named the bagage
He carried unbowed in his lineage
But did not name the bird
With the cold and ominous plumage,
Now I wonder if he heard
That after his hope was long deferred
He is waiting in sleep for a better world.
I saw the feathers of the bird
A vulture sifting the sky
Over swelling carcases, it was all
The hurrican had left.
My son has left more bereft
Than thousand debacles that this day palled,
But I will read his last poem again
Against the cancer of this pain.
Copyright © David Smalling | Year Posted 2012
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