To the Orphan


To those thoughts that die with no heads,
plant thyself in death of again,
and still no seeds will taste the rain.

Those needles whose tips loose those threads,
your metals are not zinc or lead,
don’t choose how to rust in your bed.

Those pure bloods that are impure breads
your father’s hands are not of clay.
Your mother’s heart is like Sunday.

That moon’s disease is one that spreads
don’t forget your sky when on earth
if you’re alone. God is a mirth.

Our fathers are not of redheads,
they may have died but we’ll still live
The world may hurt but please forgive.

Ruddapoet Rudolph

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