i see you flailing about
at the end of daddy's empire,
straining to touch that which
ancestors could not destroy.
running wildchild,
whirlwind of existential angst
trying to shed slab-thick layers
of tradition and structure,
following fractured muses,
dabbling in outsider culture,
bathing in postmodern psychobabble,
wildchild running
through the garden you've let rot,
hoping noise and shredded flesh
will substitute for mystery.
you scan the faint background noise
of racial memory,
searching for a saving grace,
a soft landing,
hearing only your own solitary wail
all but swallowed by the wind,
whispers riding dry waves.