My story is so nearly relevant,
I forget and roll my eyes.
Devil in savior’s clothes.
Chooses strong women to destroy.
Feeds his need for power, not so much to enjoy.
his ego & impatient impulses
blind him. his triangulated
pitted fruits gather, with
selfless, patient pistols resting
at their soldier hips.
Protests him out of town.
Has a modern twist with
An ancient form of never forget:
Forgive, as if Our lives depend on it,
because they do.
If we are to distort the ideal idea of power,
We must choose to call him Savior
and wash our own calloused feet
as well as his. Disgusting
for some, I see.
It is clear to me, the matriarch of
His chosen polygamy,
that the Collective Voice uniquely
hears this silence within that noise.
The humming humbling mumble;
Perhaps there is no means to his end.
Perhaps the devil’s clothes were a costume for Him.
Perhaps he has yet to take it off since that glowing October day
when his mother bought it for him, for staying quiet.
That coveted, covert-emboldening
mass-produced, polyester Batman suit.
Image: “Poetic Justice,” Samson Gabriel. Samson was born in Russia and studied fine art in Tajikistan and Estonia.