Oedipal Force

There is no blood, here

 

The coronation, and divide

of whom here is the monster

and who still evades the crown?

 

(Can I still call him, "brother?")

 

The crooked familial lines

I destroyed

taut and stretched

before me, like a wicker net-

The very song I cannot swallow.

A bridge, never crossed-

It's wooden slabs

lain across that turbulent sea,

a path away, too small to breech.

 

"He did it. He did it. He did it."

"He touched me", slurred

under licentious tears,

billowing of this cowardice

A sadness that turns to just water.

 

The truth unsettling

generations, heredity, 

of fleeting ancestry

 

The strolling of ancient wanderers, 

straying

between these truths,

rights and wrongs, slapping their fossilized tongues.

Question which saint to soak, and which

to seek

 

Sixteen, Seventeen, Eighteen years

of being flooded by my own reticent mouth,

the guilt is not the sword, 

Molestation is just a word-

 

The truth finally scorched

among relative ties.