Making Contact

Eye of the hurricane take you up in a rage
That may never bring you down until you do sage
In so much water and fire that you become one
With what you preach to be! Until then be gone, done
With the likes of a man such as I who am deep
In the muck and filth of life, a wanton doth weep
To see me staying here, but you do cringe with fright;
As though I should steel upon you in the night
With hunted steps made soft in the snowy brushes
Of a thousand lakes beside many soft rushes.
You do contend with me for the lot of men's souls,
But tell me, who doth wield your black heart? The controls
By which you act out this perverse deed of petty
Theft that leaves man and wife without food, most hungry,
In a puddle of need that amounts to deaths door!
Tell me, is your master a lover of the poor?

               Making Contact, (c) Luke Bennette, June 2012