Easter 1963
Every fragile flower
Weaves a different sense of power
But the old gardener
His hands and fingers soil stained
Wears the same disguise
Over his disdain for the poor and trodden mass
The beleagured hair in relentless hands
The squirming bodies bruised and broken
The trying cross of love despised
They gathered the ignorant and stygmatized
And while sun glinted on shiny coffles
The wine cup is poured
To feast the figment of a frazzled mind.
Copyright © David Smalling | Year Posted 2012
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