When He Lost His Rant And Had To Sit Quietly In His Chair


There is no revenge for humans.
There is but one retribution and is not ours to savor;
it's saved for some future, dank,
back alley, closing universe
where God will weep as He
disassembles His most gorgeous archangel of light;
that one who gripped the Holy saber by the blade,
sliced his palms along it and
grinned as his blood trailed across this virgin planet,
stained our dust before we breathed.
Since then, our festering thirst of selfyness and
each man's not-so-sacred limp and drawl
amuses this fallen ventriloquist
who lives to blow words in our mouths,
jerk our limbs about,
toss us in the trunk;
a thief without a place to fence his goods.
Ignoring script of destiny, he
stuffs his orphanages with clucking souls,
nervous waifs and cocky shrouds who
hide their question marks inside vest pockets;
he pushes nations down time's shuffleboard,
scores endlessly imagined points at a nonexistent game
in which he will never know a victory.
So, we can forget our anger
since we have not been harmed except
to each one's self by each one's hand;
for only honest victims garner quarter in their
sacred culprit's wide display upon the coliseum's floor
where tigers of the evidence dine on justice;
a holy place where we are not invited.

Copyright (c) 2009 Gary Brown