Friday, September 10, 2010

"your own" a poem

Your own


The march of tradition

Lacks wings to your heaven.

The mud of your birth-

Name will plough into earth.

The god of your fathers

Is the bauble of toddlers

And the land of your mothers

Is the coddling of crawlers.


But, the fresh from your hand

Will stand tower

And glower at death and maid fate

And sing the breath

Of your hidden name,

Harvest the best of your sweat

And scratch the sky of eternity

With your last luscious palace.


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