The Odd One Out; the Individual.

Sun, 01/19/2014 - 23:01 -- lindaex

 

The Sun sets every noon at twelve o’clock in June.

Square shell feathers chirping in their square straw nests,

Hung in the middle of a tree,

Whose grown in line like army rows, missing leaves.

 

Every nest must have two—four, six eggs at least.

If eggs are three, five, or seven, nine,

Mother must abide and commit filicide

Because divided by two should not equal to abomination.

Now kill the one that causes condemnation,

Disruption havocs just by one single aberration,

Birth bringer must undo; let its yolk ooze through,

and swallow the guilt that bleeds dry tears.

Let her feed this vitellus with briskness

to her ignorant offspring

to up-bring carriers of customs and traditions

with its upmost conviction

And enforce the rules of this unwritten doctrine

of this black and white world of Superego,

to have each generation

produce offspring of

two,

four,

six eggs

at least.

 

Now a girl with black hair walks amongst other girls

With black hair.

Dressed in uniform of black and white,

attending a school painted with black and white,

and their morals,

black and white;

colors stay in its etched borders,

not daring to cross its forbidden lines.

 

She walks amongst them, walking in a straight line, with a straight face,

with pride that is worth the town for praise.

She’s known to paint,

to paint of portraits,

containing black or white lines

which never adjoin.

But, today she dares to walk to a path

that’s skewed,

an isolated path,

beaten from conformity,

to visit a he who’s stranger than Guernica.

He lacks of a foot and strides with another,

limping yet moving

forward to meet her,

and she,

meet him,

adjoining paths yet again

to bring him of food, of clothing,

ointments, and medicine,

just to see that straight line,

etched to his face,

curve once more

with jovial similarity,

a feeling of connectedness

shared once more.

 

She walks back home,

with a curve on her face

Heads turn, Eyes glare,

But she held her head high up in the air,

Striding in zigzags,

a portrait in her hand,

Consisting of neither black or white,

but gray!

She hung up that portrait for others to see

For her future kids

to be...

 

That gray,

 a color made and meant

to intersect the lines

and colors

of black and white;

To walk

In a path

not taught

But of

their

own.

 

Today is June, twelve o’clock at noon.

But, the sun broke away

today at twelve-O-one,

one of a boon.

 

 

 

 

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