May 29 by The Running Son
I use the force.
I take it and use it for creating
sky empires and global fortresses.
A wise moon-mother I,
with hope warming
bun oven hugs, with careful star fed warnings.
Son, you are beaming,
sword down. I mean, leaving
ship and home to chase thermal winds
and sing on robotic wings?
Almost seems too electric, cooler than thermal, and effecting battles of lite shields,
and tense beams, and crossed arms
and lost dream-families,
and teenage years
training. Waiting for uncles or cave-sages,
someone to keep you from the pull
of old tractor-forces, and day-wages.
Against me! This taking, like the taking
I, off toward making art-force uses of words,
birds, pilots and light things.
I use forces for only good work,
for good now, and I’m currently listening
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