Bearing the Stranger

Revel in haste, it's such a waste to see
Such a thing becoming a man so free.
Wine flows trippingly from his reddened tongue
Without a care; he's aged, no longer young.
Can he not see the detriment to time
Not spent in finding a cure for the wine
That he feverishly pours down his throat
Like a hole where water comes in a boat?
It must be he cannot see what the sea
Of alcohol is doing, so carefree
Is his nature, his disposition, but
He has not accomplished a thing; a rut
Is his path, and he seems fine with it's make,
While I desire more and more, do take
Upon myself arduous chores, do break
My back upon the tenants of law, slake
Not my thirst until I have bowed in awe
Of the very thing I strove to create;
A perfect model, as old Bernard Shaw
Did paint Pygmalion. O second rate
Desire that is mine to carry on,
That feeds the greatest fire, love and hate
Imbued by the drops of nectar that dawn
From the thoughts I endeavor to give man,
Why do you trouble me who understand
The fruits of men, the design, why give plan 
Of everlasting light to mortal hands?
Why should I be forced to endure the stand
Where judges do cry verdicts and sentance
Me to die for the sins other men  hand
To me? In reply you say, recompense
Is not an easy thing, and men are free
To be who they are and were meant to be.

                      Bearing the Stranger, (c) Luke Bennette, June 2012