In Governance

The blade edges closer to the fulcrum

And a rope tightens.

We keep an open eye.

There is the condensate of sweat

Cascading down a sunlit pane,

This is no glass eye scenario.

It is a cutglass, wide open, case.

This is happening on their Ward.

On their watch.

The sanctum is thus severed

From the corprial,

By the smallness of error.

It will take a life time and some,

To rearrange these deckchairs.

And a four cornered compass

To firstly find and then

Help to gather them in.

There is however a pad in each cell.

No not one on which to write,

Rather one on which to thrash about,

And rage against all that is not right.

If the pen is mightier than the sword,

Let us put our legions of troops

0n high alert, so as to guard us

From those who are signatories

To the cause of Trust.

We have spent too much of our time

In such places, that are like Bethlem.

To risk an eye now is foolhardy.

The blade which cites falsehood

As a barer of benefit,

Hacks at the tether of civility

Which holds truth

In the hearts of everyone.

No one came down from the tree top,

Or left for the cave

In order to come to this.

©2019 Christopher Thompson

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