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Poem

What kind of heaven do you shadow
there beyond your gathering cloud of mist and haze?
Just how do you define a paradise of yesterday
(and dare I toy with it and say)
when luxury begins to seem passê,
and just a bit too tired not to cloy a little?
Is all that mystery a barrier to a romance
that brought the ages to its knees; it seems
like only hours ago the trumpets sounded
for the conqueror, the pounding drums,
the royal colors flashing victory again.

Again!  The victory is ours.  
Never mind the cost.  
Never mind the fading poor
who showed their wounds before the mist came in
most mercifully to hide them--
hide our memory of all the rags of poverty
with which they stubbornly adorn themselves.
What kind of heaven, indeed!

The evening with an unseen stealth
advances with a shadow of  its own
let not the trumpets fade away.
let not the glory fall
Spill not the choicest wine of all!
Bedeck with finery, and adoration
our resplendent queen who rules us
though we do not understand quite how,
her powers altogether not assumed, 
for we bestow them readily.

All hail, The Queen of Night...
What kind of heaven?  Why, it is
the one that we have chosen,
and...it seems we have forgotten
if there was a reason why.
      ~

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