Lonely Song Publishing - Writings

IV.

Your guide glows as he takes you

To the high court room where the high judge sits

Before the residents

Over radiant glories you try to perceive

But it is so hard to make sense

The gold medallion round his neck

The silver crown with ruby lights

Upon his head of snow-white hair

And iron staff and granite jaw

All is meant to culture awe-

You know, yet feel it not so well

As you should, perhaps…?

But is this not a curious thing!

From the mighty hand of the judge hang strings

A panel of experts with numbers they bring

Pull and twist the hanging strings

Under great strain the strings will swing

The hand will slide

The numbers sing

Though alone they might be silent…

And here comes a man with a word of his own

Kneeling before the judge he throws

The offering up

Unto the iron scepter

The scepter dips

The experts stand

With excitement on their faces

They do the dance of tongues

All at once the word goes flying

Soaring over, up, around

Spinning, whirling, laughing, changing

Drawing life, becoming, being

Landing on the ground

Confusion now! You know not what to say -

The formless formed, a man in tatters

One the slave – now the master

Is it boon or bright disaster?

“Someday I’ll be welcome here”

Your smiling guide exalts

“After weeks

And days and years

Years of working with the leaders

I will stand along!

After dancing to their meters

I will make my song!

And step in step we all shall stand

Gathered here before the hand”

So warm, the thought of brotherhood

(And sisterhood, lest we forget)

But some are not so blessed

Have you closely watched the hand?

There are years the hand points east

There are years the hand points west

(And of course it always marks the right direction)

Yet some have dared to turn away

Some have dared to laugh

Some have dared to reinvent

Some have dared to cry

Some have dared to try, and failing

Not to lie

But you should hear it:

The cost of divergence from the hand of the judge!

The scorn and the heat and the cold metal buzz

The head-shaking frowns and lament for what was

The ironic grip of the crowd’s gleeful jaws

The trampled-on feeling of truth that just gnaws

You might find your name all buried in sludge

You might find yourself locked away in a grudge

If you should ever dare turn from the judge

But when the judge himself turns

Which happens

Quite often indeed

Like black oil

On the open sea

It just slides by

Unmentionably