You stand before a jury of nobles

And sycophants


Your bitter-sweet fumes assail the nostrils of the jurors

A delight to some, injurious to others.

The branches of ignorant sour grapes are heard outside

Wrestling with the walls of the windowless courthouse

While crooked thumbs hail his haughty majesty

Arrayed in arrogant robes at the head of the jury inside.

His scorn for you is as legendary as your will to survive;

His skill to divide less potent than your spunk to revive.

I’ll drink from your cup any day

Assured that your bitter taste

Is sweet remedy for any fray –

No matter how long in the day

It frees the feeble soul of the frail prey.

© Tonykata 2018

From Random Thoughts: A collection of essays and poems by Tony Ekata


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