Little man behind the podium
I think I know where you’re coming from;
but all of your dead philosophy is vanity of vanities.
I know the dark night of the soul –
the bitter, existential cold;
but I’ve been clothed in righteousness,
and no dress can compete with this.
Your progress is a fallacy.
You hide beneath technology:
a slave to your belief in self –
when the Son of God is your only hope.
My mother gave me discipline,
and plowed the row I’m walking in . . .
I am thankful for a lineage that blossoms as it finishes.
Little word upon my open mouth,
I hesitate your coming out;
I’ve learned that neither steel nor guns
can tame my feral-natured tongue.
I rue the days I let her fly,
with no regard for where or why.
This child feeds on recklessness;
His heart is bound in foolishness.
I am a flower withered by the sun:
accountable for all I’ve done.
Did I reduce or magnify
the Hand that holdeth up my life?
I’ve been to Hell, and I’ve been to church.
I’ve tasted night for all it’s worth,
but my book of experience is useless to the querious.
Little bird upon my window sill,
have you come to eat your belly’s fill?
I love to leave the table crumbs
across the little hemlock stump.
I tried to sing the melody
I’ve heard you calling in the trees,
but, lo, my mouth is haggard from
the weight of pride upon my tongue.
I kiss my wife upon the lips.
I touch her face with my fingertips.
The air is fraught with tonal stress:
Adagio for Skin, I guess.
I’ve been to college. I’ve been to school.
I’ve memorized The Golden Rule,
but all of my paper documents are blowing in the wind, I guess.
(Photo Credit: epSos.de / Wikimedia Commons)
