Mentors
Those cloaks
fall like autumn, amongst leaves
dried and
pressed in books of black trod path,
and who
wields evermore maniacal laugh
pass green striplings
his sorcerer’s black crafts.
I cannot
think they ever stop to ask
what
possesses them, what was passed to them
from above to
below - glow grim you torches, glow
eyeballs so
close they can watch thoughts grow
from lines
on faces to borders on maps.
Which part
of your story belonging to these
madmen all,
hold you in thrall, heard you call,
watched straw
crawling from low manger’s edge
to that
green hill without and far away?
Bullets and
bombs indiscriminate fall
like Autumn,
like nuclear Winter’s snow,
warm your
hands by his ruddy face aglow
with pride, thinking now all mentors arise,
ascend to sterilize some man’s land
with ideas dispatched, old and hoary,
come, take disciples with this smoked hand,
conduct bit
parts in someone else’s story,
sup on immortality
and glory.
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