‘Father we have sinned . . .
We are no more worthy
To be called thy sons.’
To Papa, come ye forth, O sons
I’ve hearkened unto thy pleas
To showeth mercy and reception.
O son, let me behold thy face again,
I’m Itchin to discuss with thee, Lisle Bowles
Why do thy heart feel the shivering sense of pain?
Thou miss our early morn and evening love bouts?
Seeth thou my rich bank?
More enriched than our last meal
Thou can withdraw enough from it
To enrich thy imaginations
Thy thoughts, I will maketh love to
That thee, may feel at home once again
And thy creativity will make thee whole.
To thee O Blake, what shall I Otter?
How many various-fated years have thou passed?
Thou ain’t the wild free bird of old
Maya Angelou said thy wings were clasped
And thou singeth the songs of a caged bird.
The town of conventions gave thee those mournful hours.
Of a truth, thou were a careless child
But it’s okay son, shit happens!
Come home to Papa, I will fix this
Thy wings will I heal
That thee may soar higher and farther than an eagle
In the depths of my deep blue
Will I baptise thy emotions cum imaginations
That thee, once again, will feel blue.
The River’s is a reply to William Blake and William Lisle Bowles