Letters Written In Fetters - 2

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.