To Be What No One Has Ever Seen

Shoved aside, pushed out and down, broken crown;
He had the gifts and talents to be so much more,
But who the hell’s keeping score? Roar of Lion
Devouring flowering youth, while fluff and puff
Dogs run to dinner bell, to sell their souls
For pot of porridge kept in storage especially
For them so they have no need to forage for food.
Lazy souls, one and all, they hear the loud call
To mealtime bowl, but for the young man only coal;
And why not? He never bought the lies, sweet pies
Of hypocrisy dished out in the theocracy of Church;
He still has more to offer, but not a pittance
From the ecclesial coffer, only high-brow scoffers.
So what is he to do but remain true to his calling
Without falling into hidden, double-faced traps?
No! This man is bidden by an higher Voice to throw
Away clerical collars, bells and incense without
Any pretense; to be like good Francis of old —
Who lived in Nature, friend of animals, who told
An amazingly different story, warming cold hearts
As he played his part apart from ecclesial kings
And queens, who could only bring down such high
And mighty spirits that fly freely in lucid sky.
Is this the young man’s destiny, foisted upon him
With such clarity and no disparity for the brevity
Of his life here one earth for all its worth?
For this, then, was the meaning of his timely birth,
To be what nobody else has long been or ever seen.


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