my father's fields

I feel no compassion for dead men
As they rot into the brown humus below my feet.
Nor do I feel sorrow for the pain
They endured as they stepped upon their fathers.

When my best years are ripe and purple
I will pluck them from the vines that have grown
Up from that heavy fertile dirt
Smack each one into my gaping maw and mmmmmmm.

Though tragedy abound from mewl to moan
To whining cackle of deaths holy silver scythe
My lament is reserved for lost truth
My best grief, for the sad pillows of half-lived lives.

Do not waste your sneers and glares
As they will not rot my stainless steel soul.
Your contempt is green phlegm spit
I will wash off when I strip naked to run through

This vineyard my ancestors planted
then bequeathed to me to tend faithfully with care.
Freedom I found in this fruit,
and I will not share. Not the wine. Not the raisins.

I feel no pity for you,
I've seen the garden you inherited.
The lush fields before you
laying untended, and the harvest unreaped.

You will have no wine this autumn,
No pies. No feast to celebrate your great good work.
You will not be welcome at my table,
That is the prison that you have created from your liberty.