Swansong — a poem

Photo by Jeremy Bishop on Unsplash

This myth you make now,

this soup of old bones,

stretches like a necklace of islands strung out

over a watery grave, a garland of

ancestors, begging, pleading, healing.

And what you do now cascades up

and down your family line and stems

an evolutionary tide that washed up

waves of curses and vows, which put you

all, often violently, in your place.

Soon you too are gone. But first one question,

What will be your swansong?

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