I think we've lost the focus of family,
the essence of platonic bonds.
If we ever had it.
Vanquished by jealous anger.
God forsaken and heathenistic battles.
Resentment of birth rights,
rocking chairs cast aside.
For lack of past, no one to tell the
Yule time history.
Poor traditions made to replace and hide.
No better way. Pile on the cover up.
Decorate the pine boxes.
Hold hands and pray for alibis and aliases.
Shrouded in mystery our settlement graves' hold stangers.
The living scream from below.
Rotting flesh prances around
I know no history, I know no future.
I realize present and cry for the past.
No one sits me on their knee for comfort.
No one communicates to soothe
I rock alone making up my own tree.
Swinging from the lives others had.
No history. No future. No present. No being.
Just me and someone elses' grandmother willow.