We all have our moment.
It seeks us out, strikes our gut,
Boils our blood,
Tests our mettle.
Even warriors, in their moment, settle.
Cowards disappear in anonymity
Into the crowds of deferred activity.
Do we fight? Do we hold the line?
Do we desert to find
Some banal pacifications,
Simplicities smuggling complications,
An itch to scratch, a vice to gain,
To rebel against pain,
The wound you try, but can’t measure,
Not with purpose, but empty pleasure.
To join the throngs in primal wail,
Or sit astride to tell their tale
Romanticizing their drunkenness,
Their sallow eyes of sunkenness,
As a fist ashake against the night,
The peasant lost to the rich man’s fight
Allowing the anger to sear your veins
Until nothing but ash and scar remain,
Or else you may stand alone in pillory
Talking of honor, dignity, nobility,
While the crowd throws muck
And calls you mad, and being stuck
In a world no one else will see,
A fairytale for a reality
You must decide if the virtues you hail,
Even if your own fantasy, will pale,
Or if their beauty shines in audacity
Regardless of their veracity
And when your moment arrives,
Every way you once had thrived
Gets rocked like a little boat at sea-
When you must decide who you will be
Whatever secret thing inside your soul
You loved the most, that made you whole,
Will dance naked in the street
Baring all in brazen beats
Onlookers pitching empty glass bottles
At impassioned, unprotected feet.
viewingcamelot 