My despair is but shameful insult to
that fierce majority of soul-lives who,
proud, fight ferociously, with th’rage of life –
far-longer; frontline facing; respites few…
Th’o’erwhelming stark reality of th’strife
faced down relentlessly thr’out conflicts rife
cannot be held by one as safe as me
as if t’were something new to paralyse,
to pain, prevent, ‘n lock with Despair’s key
all action – take th’despair for clarity!
Take th’hopeless harrowing of th’inner child
as th’chance to see what they cannot unsee!
Priv’lege’s shield affronted; split; defiled…
The rebel angel ‘n the woman-wild
make clear the way by way of lieless sight.
With th’stark reality b’come reconciled.
Centre, then, their sacred rage ‘n their rites
of tears, intensity, raw-spirit fight,
‘n grief demanding you reverse your flight
from th’culpability brought out by th’light
of th’bristling fury-flames in th’deepest night
where fire yet blazeburns ‘gainst the violent blight
of Patriarch Imperial in white,
who’d tear from th’roots up to canopy’s height
the Life-Tree forests, gas the azurite
sky-ocean hallows who reflect this plight
back mournfully upon us – violence quite
abhorrent ‘n remorseless! Rise, now, bright
immortal Matriarch Communal! Might
we yet force justice t’bring about what’s right?
Image credit – Simone McCleod
william altoft 