Not so much a sycophant
Not to be rude or confused
With cretinous disregard
A little bit of a sword of truth
One that will surely cut you
Even if to fondly bring you
Deep under wing in the guise
Of future nurturing but still
Maybe not when the gavel
Strikes and the air of night
Leaves you contemplatively
Alone in the darkness and
Momentary shutouts you
Could say, you could feel
You, might want to appeal
The ruling of the supreme feeling
Meant for bettering other
Beings has somehow
Left you out but still
Under the guise of the
Wing of the future
Doorbell ringing when the
Knock at the door comes
And your heart is sore from
Not knowing if there was
Ever enough room
Money was not the object
Gifts were not the object
Minutes were also freely given
Lest more room to become
Taken would surely disrupt
The mountain and we all fall down
© GÄ
Poétique 