Tell me, my Lord;
what does the dagger say?
What does it whisper as it’s twisting?
Does it make room for apologies?
Does it shed a tear with bloody vigor?
Well to do the better man’s device,
a heaven wrought in simpler times escapes
like smoke.
Oh soil,
that covers my mistakes!
Would that they were vapors,
lit on winds.
That they were gone…
… like memories.
But a haven for the torn and ragged,
is never what one finds in courts and castles.
When a beggar sits upon the stair,
the cathedral shows him their despite.
What more was there to be expected
of a whoremaster and his chattel?
He stoked long ago the fires of his own lusts
wth brimstone of pure pedigree
and purchased his own fate
by the kiss of the dagger’s tongue.
Let us shed a tear for him?
Let us run our hands over our faces?
Let us beguile ourselves
and prostrate our bodies
before our diseased and corrupted Lords?
Better we were slaves to Pharaoh,
for at least his avarice was borne of great regard,
not drawn out of the gutters
or quickened in cesspits.
His was a regal and honorable yoke and flail.
Never did one wonder at his motives,
for he claimed a deity with no regard for his own mortality.
It was etched in every stone in Egypt;
there were no lies in him.
Tell me that these coiled serpents of today
have that conviction.
Tell me that their hearts do not hold one ounce of doubt.
Their lies are lies for a liar’s sake.
A snake bite for a kiss,
a spider’s web for a promise.
and those who seek to expose them are debased,
for they could never conceive of the fear
and the bloodthirst of these vile men.
Would a man of any real stature
ridicule the sick,
mock the infirm,
rob the old and weak?
Would a truly righteous leader
ever stoop the wet the dagger
in the back of his brother
for his lands,
his wife,
his name?
Yet these continue.
I seek no asylum.
I will still my tongue no longer.
It is not of any honorable status
to sit idly by while unscrupulous men
beget the world with a lie.
And the dagger;
they do not know that the steel of that blade,
is forged in the hearts of gentle men.
It is borne of the love of life
and the kiss of the morning breath.
While it may be wielded by the wicked,
it is their undoing in the end,
for it will always seek the hand
of a good servant.
Tell me, My Lord;
can you hear it?
Can you hear the dagger sing?
Can you tell what melody
rings through your fading senses?
It is a song of Liberty, my Lord.
It is Freedom.
HG – 2017
