Literature

The steady varnish of a brown oak-wood desk
Appeals only to those who wish and devour
The simple sentiments of life and courtesy
And the structure of pity by hand and wishful thinking
It is not one’s fault for all the ecstasy taken so shamelessly
From a fellows pardon or an enemy’s scowl
Nor is it that of friend or foe
Or the authorities right wing deceit
A simple term and a complexity of words and thought
Can describe only the most wonderful and valiant of others
As can the most complex words put so simplistically
To have one’s life turn over at the drop of a pen
At the sound of a cry and a touch of a season’s welfare
Like the crispy orange leaves that autumn ascends unto the sunken ground
How do we hark at a crow and not read the fellow’s burden?
And take the pain into one’s hand and mouth to spew out spittle
And the foul flavour of a worded phrase that repeats only a painful memory
It is of a nature so divine and without acknowledgement of its own pride
We take notice of and spread rumour of a hidden soul, an exposed promise
And so our humanism takes not a beating or a praise of tongue
But a step back to allow the past and all that of its present
To define the future’s worded nature of consent
And the eyes of war and tranquillity steal one last glance
Before the writers hand scratches the brown-oak desk
And beholds literature of such beauty, of such pardon and honesty
Of such regret and unfound knowledge of conspiracy unto a scripture of purity