by Abraham dela Torre
The weary nomad was in search of self
in myriad labyrinths of earth; cages
surrounded by the slew of sinister
enticements carelessly arranged to make
the mind attuned to opposites of grace.
Therefore his voyages were rife and ripe
with ribald gore and appetites that fed
on gluttony and grred insatiate
up till his ear was pricked by guilt; his son,
as still as smile, the kind that missed his mind
that wasn’t there, proclaimed: You never were!
The letter, loud as gavel, banged on him.
And yet, protected by a flimsy shield
of oft neglected rediscovered kin,
his arrogance and scant remorse back-talked
defenselessly through games his son deflected.
Deep was equally his solitude
and quiet grief when afterwards without
the influence of transient glee and vice
the movie of his past flashed sorrily
like starless night and silent thunder clap
only the inside of his heart, an ear,
could hear with all appurtenance of hurt.
A boomerang of karmic sorts sans doubt.
And, probing deeper, there were thankful sounds.
Sonics of some token offering plumbed
to spawn another birth, perhaps an age
or dawn of spiritless, conscientious rage.
