See that we have taken what you gave us as children
that we have beautified our inheritance
what we have lost and regained through processes unknown to us
that music has come from our anxious hearts

and we sleep by it

on our beds beside the thin man

who plays his wide guitar

O, Our mothers and fathers:
were you never this excited for your creations?

These are your faces to us—

always turned away.

...so, this poem is pretty old. i just found it going through some old stuff. it's not great, but hey, i haven't posted in a while, so you'll take what you can get, right?