I feel the tumblers
Rock and stumble
Hard within me
Well-worn keys
Handed down from
Generation to generation
Through the fumbling
My Father
Leaving the doors open
Leaving the doors closed
But mostly
Leaving the empty rumble-hum
Of a lost son
I was visited without invitations
The Iniquity of the Fathers

I inherited my
Hole of turning
The burning hot
Haunting heart of
My Grand
The Iniquity of the Fathers
Who in his youth
Made the Turning
Visited my childhood
Father no more
Unlocked the desolate places
Entertained family demons
Leaving the doors open
Inviting the enveloping
Consulate of Women
To fill each and every hall.
Visiting the Sons
so long as it is called Today

For twenty
And eight years
The tumblers
Grease grinded
Hard twisting left
Extreme right
Shaking rattling violence
But no one was released.
The Iniquity of the Fathers

But came the day
The iron stopped cold
Silence cleared a field
And holy dreams were
Born in Mercy
Mercy for a fourth generation
Who no longer hate
Or fear their God
My sons were made safe
Handed down through windows

Unmerited favor lavished on the Sons
so long as it is called Today






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