Fyn's 21 Days of Poetry

Answer to Yesterday

Beware, my child,
Look not to antiquated ideals
nor to antebellum expectations
for thee must obey the idols
of the noncommon man.
Be not like the flancloneter
whose thoughts flow
like septic cells down the
sewers of the dispossessed.
Trust not in they who draw the life tattoos
upon thy soul: Striped lines
of bars encoded speak to the great Decimator.
If thee would incline to read once printed word,
and more, if thee should dare to express
thy inner words in print,
thee must do so in great secret—
for creativity died in the great exclamation point-
ed at all who dare preserve us.

Be aware my child,
thee of green eyes in an earth of brown,
thee with sight that sees the surface beyond.
For thee still feels in an unemotional world,
still thinks with disprejudicial thought.
Thou art round, my child, in a place gone square.
It is the points; sharp, poisoned points and
the razored edges that slice to inner core
that will disembowel your heart, quiet your mind’s blood.
I am old, my child, near gone.
My cycle must now turn the final corner,
must make the last left turn to tomorrow.
Thou art my yesterdays. Thee has swallowed
mine answers, now I be empty of all.
Thee has all that is mine to give, and more.
Be thou a mask, hide in thy art, escape in thy wonder.
Perhaps, thee, dear child, shall rise, shall overcome
This sepia-ed sentence. Mayhap thee shall wordpaint
A brightness one day to enlighten the darkened.

Beware, my child.
Thee must survive the para-synmosis.
Be blank of slate, erased of mind for the dire
examinations that shall follow,
for thee art in the year
of thy becoming.
Insulate thy inner being from they that
think they look deep without.
Play the innocent game of the naïve,
remember the bishop’s pawn,
be patient for thy check to mate.
Draw from the elder’s wisdom,
their words are forever thine:
they cannot be stolen from thee.
Let not their screams silence thee
nor let their answers stay thy quest,
for thou art my hope, mine answer to yesterday.