Edges
And I wonder, where was I on that most scared day?
When fluttering about the angels unfettered and unrestrained
To the masses cast their gifts.
To the unbothered and unencumbered
Double to the unwanting and unconcerned
And to the unashamed was wasted yet more.
All spoilt on the ripened vines.
Where was I on that day?
Searching amongst the reaches for the edges.
Grasping for a corner, a line, a wall.
That something, anything, would dare arrest my progress
Remove the slack from the noose
Or perchance retard the bugle’s heeding cry.
But with a green eye and sharp tongue I admire the saintly dance of those deemed deserved.
That the boundaries of your will were sharper and barbed
That I might be bled on the boundary
And thus so joyously wounded,
be returned to the solace of the saints.
Oh to be the madder thrust upon wings of the resurrected!
The only of many in anticipation of the harvest,
assured of Abel, awaiting the worker’s will.
What becomes of the harvest when reaped by choice?
When, as witness of the mealy masses, melancholy consumes the rage.
And to the reaches again I depart, in search of a corner, a line, a wall.
