Rectitude and moral maze
Seem like to meet their end of days
In hands of saint whose might has ways
Of punishing our own delays
While failure to address unknowns
Has sold what titles to our moans
Could yet be called mere gifts or loans
With careful words we’ll leave these zones
Ally ourselves to no more men
And disbelieve reports of when
The road to peace was better ken
Of others’ culture, sword and pen
The velvet curtain will hold fast
And legislation will bow past
Poor sight-impaired judicial mast
Whose figure seems to fade, aghast
As scales are stripped of balanced view
No counterpoint, but reference, new
Established as alternate to
Our older values, now too few
To understand the loss we face
Try to supplant a lesser place
And see the bold, inhuman race
Condemn all pity, justice, grace
Awakening at last, too late
The image of our fellows’ fate
With little thought and careless hate
We’ll watch our own asphyxiate.
While general concensus decrees the darkest hour is just before dawn, common sense allows, it occurs about two a.m.
This poem is definitely 2 a.m. dark, and overcast.
Great writing here. Hardest rhyme scheme to pull off, and you rocked it for seven stanzas. I bow to your awesomeness.
Thank you, Myke!