Thursday, 18 April 2013

Candle


Born bright of eye, keen of heart, sound of mind
Knowing all and fearing none.  Such conceit
In one so young, was hard to put past my tongue.
Yet, that eye glaze and your ingenious stares
And never allow anyone your cares
This candle that burns bright in the dark
Illuminates nothing for it has no heart.

Disdain I felt for this bright light, this trollop, this
Scientist!  Pah!  Inquiring mind and indolent action
But grim rapport and mild satisfaction, this young chick pea
Down his nose looks, with tongues of hooks, steals praise
And counts his days by the heat of his flame.
This Golden Child has much to learn if he is to discern
That his Gift was not for him to be special, exceptional.

The Gift, he sees, is a slight from God, an aside snicker, or maybe
A laugh.  The cruellest Gift that God could bring is to make one unconscious
Of his sin, to harbour a pretentious ken, to rise himself above the cries
To think the elevated place is his.  The lashings I take to remain stout
His gluttony is all he thinks about, and in my smouldering temper,
I strive throughout my life to stamp his candle out.