In the golden balloon, where the flowers are mended,
and the dogs are too close, and the groceries too dear;
I run errands and write stories, for those who've ended,
their lifelong dependence on family smear.
For only when we've parted and pardoned,
their artillery's endless bombarding of our own cherished gums,
can we consume and constipate and burp without purpose,
can we visit the dentist, without fear of reruns.
But when you visit anew the sight of your gory,
desiccated, sub-bathroom charm; only when you've
understood the homeless, the elephant in the room,
begins to take form.
It's not only a matter of controlling the restless,
it's also a sin to promote too much grace;
those with the power to condone all that's worthless;
are also the men with the disgust to save.
For when we've departed, and made to feel worthless,
and all that remains is the mud on your cane;
(and you've bejewelled and emblazoned your name on your casket)
can you really ensure the cleanliness of your game.
And all that is holy, and all that is one,
will rise one day with the power to be,
not alone and unworthy, but forgiven and holy,
and all that there is, is the yearning to free.
From "The Womb" by Daniel Viragh
All Rights Reserved.