I never thought you could be so vindictive.
Are you that sad we uprooted your friends for our homes,
You just wanted a hug,
Just wanted to engulf us.
Hold yourself together.
How did you expect mud to cleanse a mountain.
Genocide from the friendliest of arms.
From dust to relics in the mud.
Bits of Adam’s ancestors take the life out of my children’s lungs.
They did that to God too.
My children’s fingers nearly look like stems bursting through soil from here.
But this time it is father, feet planted looking down from mountain, that is growing in the direction of son.
This time, tombstones grow quicker than grass.
Worms play around their carcasses, just like my children used to.
Turning their skins into fertilizer.
When Sheol doesn’t even make it six feet under, he wonders if it’s worth dancing with the devil.
Who will call me papa
My son’s roots buried like the trees that lived there before.
My fruit buried too.
As mother nature tries to become step mom.
Take the place of womb that bore trees that reached the heavens way too quickly.
He hasn’t even reached puberty yet, but he’s already learned to play pat-a-cake with almighty.
They always said that his hands were big like his father’s.
That her voice sounded like that of an angel.
Is that called foreshadowing?
Is that called foresting?
If a tree falls in the woods alone, who will hear his cries?