dear prodigal you are my son and i
supplied you not your spirit but your shape;
all eden’s weath arrayed before your eyes
i fathomed that you wanted to escape.
and though i only ever gave you love,
like every child you’ve chosen to rebel;
uprooted flowers and filled the holes with blood;
ask for not whom they toll the solemn bells.
but child of dust your mother now returns
for every seed must die before it grows;
and though above the world may toil and turn,
no prying spade will find you here below.
now safe beneath their wisdom and their feet;
here i will teach you truly how to sleep