“When you are not fed love on a silver spoon, you learn to lick it off knives.”
– Lauren Eden
born to the purple
no one to guide or support
love sought cold comfort
in all that surrounds
pushed aside by family
a need for parental touch
assuaged by those captive outsiders paid to placate
thin pitiful whines
yes, born well to the purple
all desired shackled within tacky satin
ribbons and gilded exchequers with coveted
foul purse strings
serrated hearts, cutting tongues
Do angels, those exchequers
of heaven’s golden shores,
have hearts or humor
as they focus on us with
their greedy, eternal attention?
They must be well-acquainted
with vice and the offending elements
of our ingrained, mortal weaknesses.
I’ve read those frampold canaries
- at man’s creation - coveted the gift
of choice, cruelly denied them - freedoms
that can corrupt the weak and too human.
How do those singers of exquisite songs
still find worthy peers to invite home
unless they pity, forgive or grant
endless sufferance which must,
at least in practice, resemble love.
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