Architects

Father was a friend.
He said, «Son, you will be safe if you know the devil’s hands are yours,
just as they are mine.
You are Jesus of your own disease.
That’s ironic, cause its true.»
He took my hand and told me, «Son, this world is yours.»
The architect, his wandering Opus is at variance; constituents without accord.
Curious, I grow. So was I meant to know the words my father spoke?
My hands became the demons.
The vagabond methodically trudges through bitterness, through dissonance,
and dour groves.
We’re such wicked fiends: We are the monsters.
Empathetic beings: We are the saviors.
So maybe we are flawed.
Fallen into disrepair, inherently we are the architect’s exquisite creation.
A faulty mess of diagrams and partial notes.
Father was a friend, he said, «Son you will be safe.»
But I just can’t shake the devil’s hands.
They’re yours and mine to keep.
Jesus of our own disease, its ironic, cause its true.
If we create this world… my God…