Metaphorical Lymericals.

You shape and mold me into a man, the son said to the father.

I am not ecstatic about your plan of annihilation.

Son, he said, we are at war, and war holds many lies-

Lies inside the government, and outside, in the farmland-

These are lies, the lies that are words, and the feelings

Held deep inside.  My mother said she is like a tiger,

That growls in the night.  My father is like a tiger,

That bounds and holds its prey.  Everything is a prey,

Even the homeless, even the words that are burned to black,

The shadows that fold like lightning.  It is the night of stars,

The crying of stars-this is the way that it goes, the way it has

Always been.  These are the rainbows, the nights that bend

And break, the sadness that is inside a man, someone with a name-

His face is a mask of broken promises, a field of roses,

Of cataclysmic proportions, trying to hold into the images that

Are fresh of his words.  His eyes meet the eyes of a wounded

Warrior, the warrior that is himself-

He is burdened by who he is, and his skin folds inside-

Cars pass by me on the highway, and this is my life,

The life that people do not understand-

I hide away, inside myself, and break out, insisting wildfires,

Insisting roses are burnt of water-

He makes the money, I make the words, it is how it goes,

He is silent, and everyone fights, misery taken flight.

This is the story of words, of plays mingled with sorrow,

And how English is my first language, and words are my second-

How the rainbow appears in the sky, over our house,

Wherever our house may happen to be, and how war takes flight

And makes us believe something that is not appeared-

And how, poetry, in motion, is not burdened by the face of poetry,

And the face of mankind is different from day and night,

And how his anger is flesh of flesh, and words of words-