Not vessels to be filled with your rage; not mannequins
with convenient holes you can pretend don’t have a voice or eyes
or delicate frontal lobes. We’d rather see you
ejaculate into the sky and let it rain
down sorrow. If you did that, if you turned the sky
from blue to milk with frightened tears, pleading tears
we could forgive you every time you made
the rivers run red, turned compassion on its head and robbed the world’s children
of their innocent baby’s breath. The universal mind sees
what you do, so don’t fool yourself. While Institutions may
wink and nod, you deliver your self to that wretched stained garden
the toxic seeds that you have thrown. And they will grow.
A bright green beanstalk to slowly strangle you. A mirror
for you. A time
when you become the vessel, the receptacle
of what you let fly from your loins: a legacy of pain.