The Iron Cloth

 

 

Brought up by wit

And his own mistakes,

He couldn’t have been more - wise,

Couldn’t have been more inspired

To fly away to distant shores

Where welcoming eyes shined

The applause for saving life,

But the tapestry – flawed and fraught

With imperfections that were his life’s

Own tarnished decree,

Wouldn’t allow the escape

To where life was once again -

Free, sincere, innocent!

 

     All he could do,

Was weave his own thread

Within the boundaries

Presented by the fabric,

Weave his own thread in-between

The troubled deliberate mistakes

Placed by those keen to see his

Cry for forgiveness to acts he never

Once committed,

 

     Acts beyond his understanding

Of what it was to be human

Upon designs he never

Fathomed would be the

Whim of jealous Gods,

Jealous more the onlooker

Who would strive -

To see him fall upon the flaws.

 

Just one of many,

Blasted for his belief

Blasted for his integrity -

They chose dishonour;

Labelled him a fool

And ruled with parodies

And whimsical tales

Upon his downfall,

     One of many wasted of

The life they didn’t want to happen

And as they sharpened all

Their tools of destruction

And began the sewing of the afterlife,

 

     The man already knew

Of how they’d curtsey, bow before

His face while sniggering

At his back,

     And though he saw

His Sons and Daughters

And how cruelty had beset

Their finest offerings of hope;

He played awhile and humoured all

Who sought the teachings of his kin

As disgraced and nothing more,

Until at last,

He confides upon the wise;

No more shall humanity

Be blessed the trophy

Of a life that treasured every

Opportunity for the glowing of spirit,

No shining path amongst

Tapestries rich with hate,

No more examples moulded

To the casts made imprisoned,

No more the chance,

No more the chance;

‘The human race still has much -

To care for’

     Still has much to learn about itself,

Not he or she

Made of love,

Not he or she

Who isn’t designed for war

     And calling it done,

The doves remain enslaved

To a cage ‘they’ve’ sewn within the tapestry;

The needle dulled by the masking of

The heart that doesn’t want its truest quest

Be known.

 

 

Michael J Waite 11^th February 2013.