Roots Poem by Michael Timothy Rose

Where answers lay
Is where our roots
Most abundantly age,
At the lowest and most
Nobly mentioned base
Of debate. If we trace our
Snout back, less vicariously,
And lose our vicious class,
Snuffle through the tangles
Of branches and dismay,
Meet with seven deadly sins
But somehow muddle past, then
Beneath the groundwork,
Where elusive springs of healing lay,
Therein will lie the answers
Cold and cool as the unconscious truth.
They will lead outwards from a shell,
A broken seed beneath everything
Tall, the superficial
Woodwork and the eminency of decay.
And you can read it, this seed is a book
Of wonder, of reclaim.
And, in its final sentences this book will read
To those who’ve grown, to those so frayed:

“New found logic and enlightenment
Has its own holistic flaws; beautiful and is engaging,
And true, in deed, in many respects, but additionally subject to societies mischievous four
Claws, while likewise are you; persuasion is not so easily re-found.”
“This is not an argument but a truth, ” the words will proclaim,
“Because we are a culture of unexplainable, meek, unknowledgeable
Rhetoricians, and I as seed will admit, we recurrently grow
Out of control with our
Specious reasoning
Of our own creations, of anime
In real life and of
Fault in life’s strife, in spite of our simple confines in a mirror, in a meager glass
Bowl -because we merely swim in the water,
-because we fabricate our worlds, in order to post-pone our own drowning. And it is, Therefore,

That I am glad that you have found me, and I am glad that you have read me,
that you have traced this humble tree to its roots
of beginning.”