Continuing our advent journey, here is another poem from We who still wait…
The comparisons are rather obvious don’t you think?
The bones behind his face
Are buried deep under all that privilege
Clothed in a royal robe of bloated flesh
Barely bagged by pampered skin
Puffed up by great importance
But I see him; the boy he once was
Shadowed still in the shape of him
Betrayer of old terrors and teenage fears that
All of the subsequently acquired power
Could never fully vanquish
One day it could all be snatched away
The fear of it stabs at his innards
His knuckles are white with all that grasping
And bloodied by keeping it exclusive
How much could ever be
Enough?