The Rules of Surviving, Or a New Way to Say Peace in This Home is Dream

The Rules of Surviving, Or a New Way to Say Peace in this Home is a Dream

today, let me tell you of a moving,
safe parcel that lost her map to
the destination. so, do not blame
these verses when you see a boy
of my age holding a knife that is
an exact replica of a suicide rope,
trying to calligraph the way he would
miss his body's soul. do not say
a word when you hear of a woman
that jumped over the fence, perhaps,
her matrimonial home with a heart
that sang of eternal departure,
leaving her children in the burning
home. i think you have never seen
a book that's written in a minute. the
book itself burnt into ashes before
a body, severed of its bones, would
take a read, leaving no page about the
cruel pen that wrote it; perhaps, one
that never thought tomorrow the wind
would break the seven layers of the
earth, and the sky would divorce
the moon, the sun and the weeping
stars; her, herself, would be smeared
by the dust. let me tell you, come a
a new rules for a child to survive in
this home; rules written by these
rakes that never loved the simple art
of raking the ground. first: a boy has
to fake his identity and wear a gown
that's never his; second: a bearded
man's dream must be only how to
sit alone on a president's seat; third:
a shameless lad must steal the box
when D-Day comes; fourth: one must
dry his father amidst the rumbling
rocks to water the hole designed
on his shirt; fifth: a younker, above
18, must be riding a four legged
horse to own a wife; seventh: a
man in black, who stands on the
road, must shake hands with the
innocent body that turns the wheels:
eighth: more rules; nineth; more
and more rules. but, tell me, is this
how we are going to survive? I ask