Son of the Morning
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First born, first loved,
The poison apple of your eye,
Golden boy with the Midas touch,
Well his fingers will leave you dead and cold,
Applaud him for his dirty tricks,
The lies you cherished,
The illusions you loved,
Marvel at the magic show,
He’ll saw you in half if he gets half a chance,
Turn away inconvenient truths,
Shoot or shun the messenger,
Fire at will,
But be sure to keep it under wraps,
You always disliked unpleasant scenes,
They said you were a real bright spark,
A beacon in the distance,
But electricity always flows,
Down the path of least resistance,
And in the end the hardest choice,
You’ll make before next time you see me,
Is less between what’s right or wrong,
And more what’s right or easy,
So don’t preach to me from your holy books,
Repentance, forgiveness, charity,
The words turn foul on his silver tongue,
A 21st century Pharisee,
As I suffocate under his alchemist touch,
I’ve forgotten the man he used to be,
His hardening hold,
Your glorious boy,
A walking cliché is all I see.
Copyright © Synonym Thesaurus | Year Posted 2009
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