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.