Man of the Hour

He checked his brain at the door;
Never did understand
The uses it could have.
Riding through time
Clinging to coat-tails and apron-strings,
Alternating from one to the other
When it suited him,
Casually slipping from one
Bank account to another
With the sweetness of promises
Never meant to be kept.

Possessions, after all,
Are meant to be shown off,
For their attributes feed his ego,
Boosting his own importance,
At least in his eyes,

Good things can grow in swamps
And when they do,
He's the first to take credit,
Despite the fact he planted the seeds
Then turned his back,
Except for the occasional spit of authority
In their general direction,
But faults are to be hidden in the dark
And when things really fall apart
Be sure, he'll be the first to tell -
And it's always someone else's fault.

Respect is a word he mispronounces
As obedience,
Therefore, only required
From others, not himself,
And it's a synonym for listen,
Which explains
Why he hasn't heard a thing
And he doesn't have a clue

Close the doors, lock the locks,
Don't let the world get in!
If you do nothing
Then nothing can hurt you;
Save yourself from life
By not living it!
Everything is perfect just as it is
- On the outside -
Whisper, if the windows are open!
Reality bites,
If he hides it, even from himself,
Then it doesn't exist.

Growth is a bad word,
Progression leaves him behind
Like Rip van Winkle, life carries on
While he's sleeping,
And in his neglect
The flowers still bloom
But he is not their sun.




Janet Reid
september 2008





Awarded by Poetic Constellations





  
Awarded by Poetic Constellations ~ September 28, 2008