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Tracing Portraits

by Sinaloa

on Footprints On Floorboards (2005)

The son of the slain man stands over the slain - feeling his power, like his father's killer before him
His gun at his side -blood on his boots
Somewhere, his victim's child becomes him
The daughter of assault must walk, alone, from the train
The same dark streets, her father's former place
Only once did she not make it home
It took one night to lose the race
Drawing over perceived portraits, exit the sound of wind
Enter strange silence, like sleep after violence, while satisfied sleep, too deep to forget, still makes real of the imagined
The son of the son of the slain man is slain
His killer was born by blasts from two guns
The third wife to weep sees pain build in her son
A man hires six men to kill his great-grandson
The granddaughter of assault hears laughter
She wonders how to make that sound
Her voice has been built to be soft and silent
Horrors, taught to fear, will be found