The Rights Of Pride

Can you see the fallen statues staring grim, unsure and steady of mind?

They seem to have no expectations of the future

Only disappointments in the music that we speak to them

The poetry that we write for the photographs, the heads

In uniformed sternness 

They look with architected melody and as we turn our backs they bow in frame to cry

We are not what they wanted for sons, for daughters

And we are the grisaille walking with our blood slowly dying

In secret hoping to enfranchise the adventurers, the soldiers the leaders of our past

Instead we sneak over to one another’s embrace and kiss the peach-like cheeks that it is so easy to get lost in

Regrets cast out to sea like Mary Hamilton’s babe, in a boat made from reeds, inheritances and hand me downs

And we grasp the kopis as we know our father’s did wondering if love will forever keep our minds in trouble

But I shall ever stroke your hair with fingers that my mother says were her fathers

And I shall always look at you with eyes that were once my grandmothers

And with lips that were once my fathers I will smile at you and kiss you as you do the same

And when I am alone to slowly undress my thoughts

I will look up at my great, great grandfather and only then will I feel a sense of curved and crumbling failure

What must he think of me?

Could I match him in his stealth?

Maybe then I would have reason for the strength of this inherited pride.