I have my father’s criminal mind,
But I daren’t use it.
That doesn’t mean
That every opportunity I see,
I don’t imagine what I could do
Or turn it into.
The heinous things he did
He did without
A second thought,
A conscience of consciousness, or
Care.
Nor malice.
Just salacious violence.
His legacy was so great
There isn’t any trace;
Nothing accounted or accountable.
So great is my legacy.
But every time
I see it play out
Ice wraps me like a skin
Reminding me of him
Of what he did and did not do.
What was seen and not seen;
Known and not known.
The irony of those
Who entreat themselves as “renegade”,
As they puppeteer dalliances with darkness:
Simulate the innate
Legacy they can only imagine.
That I deny
That simulacra.
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