The Putrid Feast

I was conceived in the wounds of my
Mother and father,
And theirs,
And theirs,
And theirs.
Archaic distortions,
Ancient violations,
Embedded in my original cells,
Encoded in my DNA,
Transmitted to my soma-
The sins of the father.

Born into agreements I never made,
Layer upon layer of invisible weight,
Sitting at a table of life
Cluttered,
With a rotting feast.
Born of distorted ingredients-
The meat of Greed,
The fruit of Oppression,
The wine of Violence,
Now the fragrance of decay.
Too much to be composted,
Overwhelmed silence,
Frozen in time.

Sick,
After decades of eating
At this putrid feast;
Sitting at the table of
Obsolete emptiness,
I finally see.
I push my chair back
And I stand up.

Surveying the decomposing landscape,
Not knowing where to begin
To clean up this mess.
I gather a plate,
A cup,
And then,
I sense what needs to be done.
My arm ceremoniously extends,
And in one swift and graceful motion,
I sweep the table clean.

--

--

Get the Medium app

A button that says 'Download on the App Store', and if clicked it will lead you to the iOS App store
A button that says 'Get it on, Google Play', and if clicked it will lead you to the Google Play store
Stephanie Dawn Clark

We are here to become wise creators, to serve Mystery, and to experience the absurdity and fullness of Life. In this, true Joy is lived. Welcome to the Party.