Veritas Redux
by
James J. Roberts
 

Life's poltergeists
pummel the bones
of young and old
with worry and woe
                ...but tickle them, too,
with kinder things
like butterfly wings
and green-bean strings
to salve them from
black hornet stings
that lance the skin
               ...but not the Soul.
That, my friend,
is left for "holy men"
who always in the bitter end,
first gently twist, then crudely bend
Truth's Limbs to their unworthy ends.

When said and done with Truth
they slyly send for a coffin
to bury dead Truth in
(lest its corpse should some offend);
but It arises from the grave
like a Nigger whose been un-enslaved
and rages 'til It wins It's day again
over patriot, papacy, and "friend".
Over crown, capital, and sword,
It wields It's power UNYIELDINGLY
until all who see it finally flee
or kneel and whisper,
..."Lord!"

And so the cycle goes,
and then goes around again:
The play always beginning
right where it always ends,
ending precisely where it must
to once again
begin.
 

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