August 17 by The Running Son
ψ To the 3rd and 4th ψ
From the hip,
this shooting pain is just a congenital fragility. These old bones
split with flair;
generations being airlifted; always a neighborhood affair.
Hold my hand.
I am barely there. I’m still reaching back, and can just now almost
touch the hair-
line of my uprooted posterity, receding and nearly barren.
Let it slip.
Let it all fade away. Failures may easily dissipate and be dismissed
with the air;
but mistakes leave traces of cancer, and generations displaced.
by Jim Aldrich (:
.namaste. -• ö.tH(ink)Mÿstiç •- .namaste.