The inclusion delusion deluged our farmland...
We told truth to intrusion, bold youths bring confusion, unto us. That's the toll on life harm hands.
Way in back, behind the sunflower stacks I'm painting my thoughts on a son's power plaque. Trophy may be the word used by greater men than me but power plaques stack.
On your shelf or in a sack, those wooden smiles etched into good strong tiles, wild one's may wager all bets on behavior.
Fleshing out the empathy seen between each minor crack that antiquity will wear. One wonders where their spare air just might be.
Symphonies siphon ciphers from inside lifers who are fighters just not fathers.
it could be the warp in my history's story that floored-seed we never do meet bc the glory we felt afternoon-delighting ourselves becomes new yield dealt to the dwindling farm plans,
but the sun catches the father's irreplaceable absence like ashes.
We'll not watch as tiny wind dancers, each spec enhances us, asks us, "how absenteeism shapes preteen through post-green we?" We're too enamored by the cremated man's dance we're sun bathing in.
Pretending pre-ending fatherhood has come at last, this time in person, if effigies can pass, as his present poisons my purified past.
Will I still run the last of the last of the son's unencumbered fun-dom? Or will the tall corn rows grow all of my mom's poise pose?
Numbered, then destroyed in under a minute's lifetime devoid of soft tissue into which we hide our hatred, that which we never related we had.
Luckily love lives ,for most bastards, right up until the disaster and reappears after the "man" on whose farm we stand, to understand, has gone and come to our inner orphan's ordering shouts.
We all can hear in half our bouts-to-come, us dad-less sons run doubt's about amounting to and about someone wanting maybe one son but now's not our land's richest time.