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Poetry of the last

The torches, the big sticks with round heads shall come,
And darkness before their glare shall part,
Oh how loud their whispers will be,
How dark their humour shall sound,
The owners of the truth,
The tiny bride I eloped with,
She that many loved but just as a friend,
Never once willing enough to betroth her
Where hast thou been?
You are later than I expected,
Why the chains and the clubs,
Oh, I forgot,
I am an outlaw,
The one who married against the family,
And fought the values they held so dear,
Kindred corruption, magnified greed and insatiable appetite for public land,
But where, to hide should I?
When they knock down the front door to make claim?
The world is too big for me,
And the corners too sharp for solace,
Where to run should I?                                                        ,
When their dark pesky whispers deflate the cricket’s song?
Should I say unawares I was caught?
Hungry and out of clothe,
But it was long in coming wasn’t it?
The poetry of the last,
Written with blood unsacred and the quilt of an aging bald eagle
Where art thou,
All those I fought to clothe,
And all those I balanced on the scales of justice?
To the grave I go alone,
But you will remember me in songs won’t you?
You will make films and holidays,
To remember he who fought,
How lonely I will be,
How alone I shall stay,
When I write the poetry of the last,
With the broken quilt of an aging bald eagle,
When the owners of the truth,
She that I eloped with,
Knock to make their claim

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