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 a 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 it breathed.
Since then,
our festering thirst for 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
in a nonexistent game,
as if he would ever know a victory.
So, we can forget our anger for
we have not been harmed except
to each one's self by each one's hand
and only honest victims garner
quarter for their 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