The blade edges closer to the fulcrum
And a rope tightens.
We keep an open eye.
There is the condensate of sweat
Cascading down a sunlit pane,
This is no glass eye scenario.
It is a cutglass, wide open, case.
This is happening on their Ward.
On their watch.
The sanctum is thus severed
From the corprial,
By the smallness of error.
It will take a life time and some,
To rearrange these deckchairs.
And a four cornered compass
To firstly find and then
Help to gather them in.
There is however a pad in each cell.
No not one on which to write,
Rather one on which to thrash about,
And rage against all that is not right.
If the pen is mightier than the sword,
Let us put our legions of troops
0n high alert, so as to guard us
From those who are signatories
To the cause of Trust.
We have spent too much of our time
In such places, that are like Bethlem.
To risk an eye now is foolhardy.
The blade which cites falsehood
As a barer of benefit,
Hacks at the tether of civility
Which holds truth
In the hearts of everyone.
No one came down from the tree top,
Or left for the cave
In order to come to this.
©2019 Christopher Thompson
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