02 Mar 2016 – Villanelle

Each promise men have made to me just filled my mouth with dust
their passing sandals fed to fevered winds that they might fling.
All rich men have their own ideas about what’s truly just.

That sound can’t be the groaning poor – it’s just a moaning gust!
Each night I heard the howling winds and wondered what they’d bring.
Each promise men have made to me just filled my mouth with dust.

Apostles of the Golden Calf distribute alms of crusts.
It’s edifying when one hears the rattle of their bling!
All rich men have their own ideas about what’s truly just.

I’ve cried so many cold tears both my cheeks are stained with rust.
My heart compressed by anguish so it feels I’ve blown my rings!
Each promise men have made to me just filled my mouth with dust

A child’s largess of innocence transmutes to hard won trust –
the passing years pry loose the dreams to which the hopeful cling.
All rich men have their own ideas about what’s truly just.

That water pipe of power stirring skulls and spinning lust!
I missed out on my birthright all because my dad’s not king!
Each promise men have made to me just filled my mouth with dust.
All rich men have their own ideas about what’s truly just.

~

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