It was a confrontation that was reminiscent
of the past, a signal of generational trauma,
That was repeating itself, but the names were
different, but allured by the roses that heard
the scream.
The countryside lulled the screeches
of the pain that never gained repentance.
Butterflies rose to the shiny armor,
but no oil lamp or suttle acting
could cloud the comfort of confrontation.
It was a craze that families waved in silence,
as though the intricacies didn’t matter,
as one swept the confrontation or
the theatrics of the voice, diaphragm
that involved in the scaling of anger.
Even the ships couldn’t dissipate in the winds,
disconcerting in nature, but the flames
were brimming for healing.
A journey that continued in the families
pathology, it saddened many and held
tears that never touched a handkerchief,
it was a primitive recording that held
the trenches of adultery.
A child’s hurt reverberated through the
veins of the Nile River, the sand dust storm
prevailed as emotions ran high from
the preview of dishonesty.
Hatred was pursuant to the violent tides
that aged in the fist of earthquakes, no
calming seas could tame the squalid
and discontent that never touched
the core of the violent streaks.
The swelling grew as the innocent emerged
when introduced to the families curse,
that never saw what healing looked like,
the heart paralyzed the innocent and continued
without any dismantling.
Discreet in its presence, as though it had never
existed, but it was rumbling like the earthquake
that struck at midnight. Without consultation or
trepidation, the touch of ancestral pathology
ran deep like the Mississippi River, and place
the soul keeper at bay but was repudiated
with the gaze of the alligator waiting to see
its next victim in the family.
It was an undertaking that the swampy
water engaged in because it was never engrossed
in lucid waters, but as it took one step forward,
it took three steps back.
Emotions never ironed out, and it was anguish
that piqued its’ ugly head as though
it was waiting for an eruption that disintegrated
into the tides that haunted the new and innocent.
Nothing more scattered can come from the confrontation,
but a lesson to be seen, and wishing, hoping the innocent
doesn’t follow the pathology.
The confrontation was an awakening that was needed
to seen in the national square because nothing comes out
of quietness, but in the turbulence of war, where triumph
and breakthroughs can flourish for a new crop of healing.
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