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








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