A Modern Family

An owner, a mother, a person in control, a person that created a life, a person that took away a breath. A love sparked the act that lead to a nine month fertilization of the most miraculous crop of the brightest of colours. The rain blisters the window pains of the house that was used as the catalyst for the delivery. As she grasps the door's unlocking device she becomes wrist deep in water. The wooden slab that separates the wickedness of the world from the modern necessities that were riddled inside, had its pores opened and allowed the torrents to attack the inner purity. The slab blown down the mother walks with not but rain dripping from her eyes and a basket in her hands. A life dangles within ten digits. A bus that slides to its stops allows for the pilgrimage to proceed unto St. Peter greeting her with open arms; a meditated handling. A dove flies across a moon lit sky that bursts from beneath the black sheets that are pulled loosely across the heavens. A shadow has no place on the rippling pavement.

The dove flies to a branch not but blocks from the basket that sways in a soft ten. The shade that holds all the colours that an eye and mind can envision, floats down from its spot as the dove casts its back on the dreams of life. The feather turns as black as a glistening winters day as the sun reflects from each icy cluster that codes the ground, that a blind man can see. This feather that ways 8 pounds 2 ounces, wakes a man, a father, a homeless person, a deserter that lies on a bench beneath a comforter of the previous events printed daily. Our society loves to recycle. This man sees more awake, his unconscious denies him of what inspires each action that is played on the pathways of life. The wooden bench bleeds with the blood that he has spilled. He let go of his place. He neglected to become what he had became. He allowed himself to do the deed. But yet a back was turned, a heart was broken, another weakened, one lost forever. This man becomes chained to the bench to feel the blood which he created, and allowed to be wasted. This is the closest he has come to being a father. With years streaming from his face, he still feels no remorse. In horror, he still can not understand his misdeeds. This is what has come to be, this is what had no chance from the start. Abandonment created loneliness, which created fear and lead to the feeling that she can not succeed. That she was not ready. The black feather does not absorb any red even though it sinks in it.

An infant, a child, it is merely a heart in a flesh casing. The basket that it lies in becomes a pool that fills further with each drop that seeps from the sky above. The doors at which it cries opened quickly to the deathly cries that had came from the outside. With a single motion the face of God chuckles and does not feel remorse. These doors of acceptance slam shut in the face of purity. A life this new deserves to be given a swimming lesson before being left to float. No laughter is held within it's lungs, only gurgled gasps of helplessness escape from a fresh mouth that was delivered to unwanted hands. The feet which carried the weight of two stepped from a bus, then unloaded it's unwanted cargo to the gates of rejection. This place of help leaks from the roof, water rots the corner posts that let stand the magnificent institution of falsehood that grins with corruption. The building that has angels on its peaks and lava flowing in it's sewers collapses onto a pool that holds a swimmer before his time. Lessons scheduled for one day too late.