I was the secret floating on the surface,
The meaningless drifting of some awful purpose,
And dancing to the lapping of the hour
The driftwood clasped the formula of power.
I was the punished face in the multitude,
The disinherited, the anonymous, the blood,
I was the character that asked for more,
I was the Lord’s cut flower, I was the poor.
I was the one afraid to make the grade,
The person with a package during the parade,
And all went by, kingdom, power and glory,
Faster than a flickering moving picture story.
The waters were awake, the land asleep,
The meaning of that life was far too deep,
The sea was champing at the bit of shore
While Time lay sleeping at the idle door.
OI was one of the Institution’s shoots
But there was sky between me and my roots,
Now nothing but this minute is in my hair,
A dead stone writing on the wall of air.
Though Fate herself should answer half my cries
A thousand years will not wipe out the lies;
The crickets chirped against the roar of war—
The headstone at my forehead says no more.
Leave a Reply