You’ve made a sin of a son
bringing light into this world without the pattern of the father to guide him; the very essence of the father, the pater: the pattern.
And you could not manage it.
Worse, you’ve sold yourself that lying snake‘s oil. Just a thimble’s worth covers the skin. Somehow bastards beget bastards.
Here I stand, shining in the sun. I’ve stacked these bricks with my own hands, and I have grown strong muscles. But take no pride in this. I am not yours. And beneath these muscles, a weak back and fallen countenance.
No marrow fills my bones. No courageous spirit instilled. Nothing transferred. No surety. I cannot hold bond. My word is nothing. Like my father’s to me—and perhaps his, to him.
Your sin is mine. I will not pass on this curse for your redemption, or what might seem it.
Of course you need a redeemer. Of course slavery appeals to you. Your guilt, your sin-debt is real—it slithers, surely in the dark places.
May your bones be forever empty, your tree dry for having found water and never shared.
I will be your sin eater, and we will stop this familial feasting on the bones of our children.
Burn me on a pyre at the end of my meal. I will sanctify your weakness with a pleasing scent to god—the smell of basalt burnt skin of serpent son.
But cowards cannot bear even the smallest sacrifice. And you burn me twice thereby.