(Take that in-your-faces evil Anthony Albanese and Prakash Saint Paul)
Does the clock have a fate
beyond disrepair, like an eternity
swirling in its hands, understanding
that the web won’t go away!
I have folded and unfolded the wool
of my substance; and kept it clear
of the wool of dust. You can say age
has no wrinkles, that God knows
not even the scars of past wounds
that talk of pain. He doesn’t dwell
in tears. He is more than poetry
that is unseen; but whistles its tune
for every generation. That is life
that doesn’t accept coronations from evil,
but understands its exaltation in
the simplicity of its duty. How is stone
the heart of the wicked, that would plumb
their depths to wear God out, of the
miracle of his perennialism. He could have
fortifications for every love, but doesn’t insist
they see it. He just wants you to be your own
Kings and Queens; and reflect the exemplariness
of his own subtle, remarkable resilience!
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