No Meager 'Passion Play'
This dance of 'political circumstance',
Deadly as nightshade, bristly as thorns;
Worn as the annals of sorrow and shame
Darkened by avarice, chastened by scorn.
Wooed by the rapture
of raison d'être,
One
clammy handshake undoes it all;
Carrying the burden of
haphazard chance
Only the lonely still spar
at the hall.
Yet, clear of forged rhetoric, drained of
pale lies,
I
have not bent down to scorch at the earth;
Nor
have I drunk from the commonplace wells
Seasoned
with venomous, poisonous mirth.
We'll see very soon who wins
and who 'wars';
No
matter how 'trite' or absurd the teams lean;
Behold
autumn's forces on key judgment day
The
master-at-large drafts a dank, somber scene.
Poem written by L.P.-G. / c. August
2016
Post-script:
