The Inheritance
A poem.
What a wicked world; or, perhaps not;
You see . . . the soil is deep in the fruit.
Pull out the roots.
Its depravity, insanity, and lust,
Makes for a decadent wine.
Insofar as it takes, with no regard for: form, origin, or substance . . .
Everything.
It craves consumption.
“Fill me,” it says.
Mason or masochist,
it makes no difference;
The magic is in the taking.
So forward, onward—
Come back to your nature.
It is indistinguishable
from the rapaciousness…
Of dirt,
Of worms,
Of weeds.
It was there, all along.
Six feet below:
Your immaculate face.
There, you will find:
Your quintessence.
I bequeath it to you.