by Paul C. Binotto
Silver spoon, silver mote, One chokes the eye, the other, throat. Which the sheep, which the goat? Which the warning, prophets wrote? Retire for the night, Rise, re-treaded for the day. Walk in the light, Water and clay. The very stones wail out Against the silence cast in gold. Blood runs all about, Both the new and the old. Is this the day, prophets foretold, When state, not God, ruled? Every thought measured, weighed, retooled; Every word tethered, caged, controlled? Crowding faces cry-out their names, And confess their guilt by association. Presence means participation, Despite the innocent's claims. If this all leaves you cynically cold, There's warmth within the ancient fold. Don't believe what you've been told. And be, not for a minute, fooled.