The weary nomad was in search of self
piled, buried underneath an earth; a cage
surrounded by the sloth of different
enticements carefully arranged to make
the will attuned to opposites of grace.
And so it was his voyages were rife
with ribald gore and appetites that fed
on gluttony and greed insatiate
up till his ear was pricked by guilt; his son,
as still as smile, the kind that missed his mind
that wasn’t there, proclaimed: You never were!
The letter, loud as gavel, banged on him.
And still, protected by a flimsy shield
of erst-neglected rediscovered kin,
his arrogance and scant remorse back-talked
defenselessly through games his son deflected.
Equally deep were his solitude
and quiet grief when, afterwards, without
the influence of transient glee and vice,
the movie of his past flashed sorrily
like starless night and silent thunder clap
only the inside of the heart, the ear,
could hear with all accessories of hurt.
A boomerang of karmic sort sans doubt.
And, searching deeper, there were thankful senses;
music of some token song was plumbed
to spawn a genre, probably an age
and dawn of spirited applauding sound.