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Rated: ASR · Poetry · Family · #2135620
An estranged family member pays a visit.
Who is this knocking at my door after so many years apart?
Is this the brother I once knew who stuck a dagger in my heart?
Estranged we are because you signed a letter that was full of hate;
written by your wife back then—I hear you now, but you’re too late.

I saw you pull up in the drive in your large green Ford pickup truck;
(to pen your name with clarity tells me you must have run amok.)
So now you come to visit me—I cannot help but wonder why;
I’m used to being brother-less as wounds abide and years go by.

So shook am I to see your face that I feel capillaries burst;
(a wave of shock comes over me and suddenly I am immersed.)
I see you did not bring your wife, or should I say, The Puppeteer?
she seemed to pull your strings back then—was it control, or was it fear?

Do you recall how you called Dad to see if I received it so?
(I should have left the letter be, but that was many years ago.)
It was an exercise in hate with no regrets and no remorse;
(one woman that destroys a clan is truly a malicious force.)

Here you are without emotion and your face as blank as paste;
all this loss of family oneness is indeed a dreadful waste.
But you made it clear as space-time that I was on your hating list;
so feel the pity of tomorrow since anti-virtue is your grist.

Oh unexpected visitor, what is it that you want from me?
Have you been locked away so long that you are here to be set free?
Mom said so many times about the both of you: They just don’t care!
The die is cast, oh brother dear, the cymbals clash, the trumpets blare!

It’s all about integrity, for when that’s gone the person dies;
without the wholeness of the man he staggers in a pit of lies.
I reached out to the both of you with special gifts made with regard;
you thanked me with a deed of hate—oh tell me, was your heart so hard?

So here you are, a stranger now—upon my porch you stand less tall;
when I took care of Mother all those years you did not give at all.
You were quite far away, that’s true, yet we still talked by telephone;
but suddenly you stopped your calls and I was left to stand alone.

What is it that forgiveness knows when he is pitted with disrupt?
Forgiveness does not give itself like pencils from a beggars cup.
I hear my Father echoing the lowlights of your own disgrace;
I took the time to bridge the gulf, but found your spittle in my face.

Depart from me, castrated one, the blood in me still courses cold;
I have no need for you at all, this opera plays very old.
My stomach churned, my eyes grew tight and I knew just how to cry;
and I cannot shake your hand this day for I cannot grip a lie.

40 Lines
Writer’s Cramp Winner
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2135620