Black Heart
No finer witness to the unchanged heart,
he dishes scorn and heaps high his disdain.
A gift with words, quite clear is his command,
yet his tongue spews forth filth, is entertained.
The chains weigh dark and heavy on this soul,
and yet imagining himself as free,
he marches to a beat both dire and droll,
and fails to grasp the reason he can't see.
The self has raised to lofty heights, this one;
he, from his vantage, sneers down at the rest.
A wasted gift when all is said and done:
a hormoned chick beating a vaunted breast.
Here too I found myself in olden day;
as others did for me, so I will pray.
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