The fables of Carmine

You demonize privilege,

the very nostrils that fetch air to your lungs.

The sinister boogeyman you drag around behind you,

like a suitcase on wheels. That only packs all the punches of your past.

Occasionally, you take one out and assault me.

Everywhere you go you plant seeds

of chaos.

There’s no home for me to…seek out.

Return to, to rest.

Nowhere to run. Only somewhere to hide

A pavilion built on the foundation of lies.

A home is a well dug deep into the ground, a refreshment.

Nurtured by the hands of a kept promise.

A set of hands that act as a source, cupping water to drink from.

Mother; a living spring, an endless harvest, botanical, fashioned to propagate pieces of your aura.

But you strip me of all my fauna and flora.

For every child that governs its mother, is a bird that is denied the autonomy to fly.

To live under a constant pull to help you is to live under the persistent haunting of a phantom that’s always beckoning me to sing.