My story is so nearly relevant,
I forget and roll my eyes.
Devil in savior’s clothes.
Chooses strong women to destroy.
Feeds his need for power, not so much to enjoy.
Climax
his ego & impatient impulses
blind him. his triangulated
pitted fruits gather, with
selfless, patient pistols resting
at their soldier hips.
Protests him out of town.
{climax}
Our story
Has a modern twist with
An ancient form of never forget:
Forgive, as if Our lives depend on it,
because they does.
{Chance}
If we are to distort the ideal idea of power,
We must choose to call him Savior
and wash our own calloused feet
as well as his’. Disgusting
for some, I see.
It is clear to me, the matriarch of
His chosen polygamy,
that the Collective Voice uniquely
hears this silence within that noise.
The humming humbling mumble;
Perhaps there is no means to his end.
Perhaps the devil’s clothes were a costume for Him.
Perhaps he has yet to take it off since that glowing October day
when his mother bought it for him, for staying quiet.
That coveted, covert-emboldening
mass-produced, polyester Batman suit.
Change
Image: “Poetic Justice,” Samson Gabriel. Samson was born in Russia and studied fine art in Tajikistan and Estonia. first version published with Reclamation Magazine
Hokis | Poetry 