From this vantage point, your insight was prophecy, but
twenty years on a plurality of idols was folly to ears attached to lips that kissed their feet.
Plus, I thought you were the domineering one.
As it turns out, there just might be something to maturity,
and what death does to a man,
and love as an action unto the least of these.
And the symptomatic suffering that led your lips to speak:
You are the sons of your father.
Your father knows not mercy.
Your father has not been broken to the point of needing it
threaded throughout his dogma as a noun.
I'd be interested in revisiting this conversation if you were around,
but if it's any consolation, I can hear your exasperation now.
I found my fingers on the pavement,
shot from the wheel well,
years removed and only recently
aware that I've been completely dismembered.
I remember the words you spoke,
and I remember the way you broke into similar pieces at the place of the skull.
I know that there is no better way
to crush people
than in the name
I'm sorry that I did that to you.