bodies and trees are aching for the
rain
as in the evening we note fading
light
so much of living involves daily pain
and waiting for the outcome of each
fight
to be recorded or to see the right
sense of desire intrude into the
known
realm of division where each mortal
groan
tells that the mortar truly met the
pestle
and into powder we grind the soft
stone
the gentleman at least is not a
vessel
within each heart we hide a single
grain
of honour that we hope will still
burn bright
if ever we can truly ascertain
not just the force of ordinary might
but that when we ascend the greater
height
an honest glow will rise from in the
bone
the deepest fear at last be
overthrown
and hatreds will find no room to
nestle
but from our minds with fullest force
be blown
the gentleman at least is not a
vessel
time it turns out has been our
greatest bane
a statement that no one would say is
trite
it leaves us with a visible slow
stain
that turns at last into the final
night
we speak in whispers of that lasting
plight
but not a one of us has cause to moan
each goes to the last end wholly
alone
standing on a stark old bridge or
trestle
with nothing left to pardon or atone
the gentleman at least is not a
vessel
prince as you sit upon your golden
throne
you have no reason to curse nor
condone
nor any champion to fence or wrestle
a better crop you could never have
grown
the gentleman at least is not a
vessel