The stranger

What sort of person are you?
Do you wear foreign clothes-
A glass eye, a crutch, a rubber mask,
Stitches up your spine, is anything missing?
Yes, yes? Then we cannot admit you.

Stop crying. Expose your wrist, your hand is trembling,
Will not take a moment while we brand you with a number;
Now you are stark naked- how about this new life
Dark and stiff, not a bad fit, really.
Believe me, you will be buried in it.

Now your head, it is empty of course, coming from another land;
Out of a closet, blank as paper; oh, look, it can talk.
Talk, talk, talk in a foreign tongue- must brand that as well,
My boy, it is your last resort, will you marry it?
Your new life will work, there is nothing wrong with it.

In thirty-two years, you will still be in a hole-
A grave, with your heritage as a headstone,
And no one will care, not even your father,
He is too busy burying his other children;
By now, he is impervious to suffering
(They feel the sweet pain that only death can bring).

Copyright © 02/20/2019 lance sheridan®

The stranger