funeral..

[maynard_is_keen]

The Prose of a Con-artist

You were the barbaric father,
and I was the weeping daughter,
making popsicle stick crosses for the entire litter.

But every once in a while you'd let me keep one.

Now I've become the unfit mother,
the one who discards her carbon-copy kids,
(because a mess so big should be left for no one.)

I vaguely remember
our somber September,
and our tangled sweaters,
embracing the warmth of each other's light.

But now I'm walking in the footsteps of my unfit mother...

We shake away our follicles and leave behind fossils,
in hopes that someday someone will study how we felt.

But our smoky silhouettes dissipate like Pompeii.