Photo Credit: Trevor McKinnon

By Jorge D. H. Prósperi, 2022

As it was in the beginning, is now, but not meant to be 
Since early dawns entitled pronouns roamed  
defining notions of you and me
that one is pure the other stained
captives both to myths of worth 

Mothers, fathers raised and schooled
to blur, to dim, to alter views
passing on untruths unruled
teaching how to fear
how to hate  

Planting seeds in fields of ashes
wondering why the drought of life
why the unrelieved thirst 
never quenched
why the infinite fatigue 

Missed sunrises, sundowns . . . a dawn . . . a dew
hustling, jostling, passing self without significance
yet twilight and dusk enable pause
to see a fertile field, a brook . . . to rest 
yet a choice denied by choice 

An uncaused cause shrouded in tears
used, abused to absolve by thoughts and prayers  
a star, a cross, a crescent moon reframing image 
chiseling a likeness to justify the terror
to consciously deny another’s breath

Beings stripped of human core
emergence of marketed mortalities
the dawn of man a cyber matrix game
modern woman asserting to be free
both left to hover over sense of self

And so a toxic harvest feeds young souls
to discern difference not sameness
to preach that blood is black or white
to scream in fear 
make mute another’s pain

Well trained to stand with hand on heart
salute a cloth with stars of sculpted borders
ruled by masters but tenants all
descendants of ascendent righteousness 
now flagellants for conscious vileness

Too much a remembrance to bear
a cold blooded legacy of knives
carving land along with flesh
without esteem without consent 
finders keepers losers still weeping

A desperate darkness campaigns to avoid the light
pretend that rain and snow sort faces to fall upon 
to live and die denying all in-between
to reside within a lie 
enslave the self for eternity

But as it was in the beginning, is now and now meant to be
minstrels chant a grammar made anew
declaratives now subjunctives, now pluperfects
dogmatic stories countered, sung with timbre in harmony  
voices no longer silenced as if sound and voice were owned

For generations heralded as ‘the greatest’ no regard
the silent boomer, X, Y and Z silent still
children yet unborn the greatest generation to be
seen by each as if eyes looking in a mirror
to walk this earth without parental fear

no more 
no more to bequeathed fear
no more to licensed horror 
no more waiting for the slaughter
no more to lingering trauma lived