A growing and amalgamation of

     a sound that hisses forth a spit

and provokes a growing hum,

     has every quill a contest for the

loudest noise 'alive!'

 

      None awares their circus states

predicates of infancy, a juvenality bares

a host of carnivore and only,

      to satisfy the whimsy of a walking

flippant cradling a scald - and that;- 

     the only thing they own.

 

      Someone 'close' is passing by

and the scabbard bares the heel,

     a heel that shines from top and

down beneath the shadows where the

polish excites the writings of a crooked

     twisted smile.

 

     So long upon engagement, none

have known the life term of purgatory -

where every best intention has been

     an entertainment only writ for the

purpose of a thwart, and so much withheld in candid applause the public

     unawares.

 

     The time has come.

A time has come to give respect to

     'all' we share our unnatural state of

prison here; a validation we have

never truly understood as a global

     collective of children guided only by

          our fear.

 

     How it is we sit as narratives where

only one 'there' has the insight of experience, one so sorely tired and

     still in hope for many but dare not

     state as much for service must be

held till the very last of breath.

 

     Well done your majesty on a long and arduous road not everyone can walk,

     and though the critics will wait till

past an hour of settled dust, they'll

never know the personal frustrations 

     covered up and hushed.

 

     Rest, and rest, again.

 

     There is a silent toast both in 

     salutation and in care, that hopes a healing of magnificence,

     a hope of worldly understanding,

written tall and fragile and still upon a prayer.

 

     May the prayer, be granted so,

and the freedom of your soul.

 

Michael J Waite 9th September 2022