And it’s true
that some thought
He wrought to
wear a human face
And actually
seemed
Most decent with
his military insignias on.
He speaks with
that sort of passion and depth,
It seems, that
gives reasoned reasons
For his reasons.
Technically
speaking, how his words go down
Is of little
consequence to those around
For they’re made
palatable
By the very
concavity of his idiom.
His inner
thoughts,
And I am
only privy to them
Through his rather
large sun glasses
From beneath
of which he probably glances
At the little
folks in the hustle and bustle of their lives
Underneath the
purview of his glasses,
His inner
thoughts, Oh… never mind, never mind.
Here is no
common man;
His mission,
it turns out,
Transcends
all women and men
And the little
children
In whose
eyes the streams run
And the
birds dream of Spring
In the dead
of wintertime.
For the
record, his voice declares:
“Men and
women of the East
Mark my
words; your destinies
Rest in my
hands
I am your baker,
dough, salt and yeast.
A true
vision I hold
You know not
where I dream to take you
Nor do you
need to know
I myself
know not the nitty-gritty of
Where we’ll
go;
I only know I’m
not God Almighty
But God
Almighty anointed me
And
appointed me to deliver you
From the
destinies
You’ve
plotted against yourselves
With your
own hands …
And that indelibly
wrong ink
On your forefinger
with which you thought
You’d rewrite
the preamble of your script!
For the sake
of these tender hands,
I hereby un-ink
the ink
And forgive
you your wrongdoing.”
