Much is made of the strength that erects,
artifices of bronze and iron and steel,
amidst steadfast citadels we scarce can feel,
or contemplate, but only assign great defect,
to hands that absorb the iron we perfect,
hands that caress wood over zeal,
wooden, leaning tower and shame to seal,
a contract left for the grave and the earth to direct,
a few deluded whores and fishermen to mourn,
a contract made on forgotten stakes,
beneficiaries of ointment and worms,
just flames licking the subject of criminal scorn,
Who would assume such weakness makes,
The redemption of man on immutable terms?
2 comments:
Your writing is so good, Emerson. I enjoy reading it every time. This is excellent.
Thanks Mark,
Richard gave me a number of tasks to complete for Good Friday; the discipline of writing forces me to come to terms with the implications of the day without letting it slip idly by.
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