Matriarch History
We are not strangers here
Where this new landscape
Faints in its own vapid air
A mistrewn carcas, a drape
On mythos of my shape. I
Too exhausted by dilated sermons,
Would break bonds and fly,
Though a son. We cold tarpons
In in deoxygenated mud
Hang to stems of shrivelled bud
It was not their choice, this
New world of disaster, this change
That all beliefs and creeds twist
Into something new and strange.
The matrifocal world is based
On surrender, a voluntary gift
Of self to trust that never erased
Their worth. Here trust adrift
They raised their own falg and rule
The desolation's empty pool.
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