You stand before a jury of nobles
Your bitter-sweet fumes assail the nostrils of the jurors
A delight to some, injurious to others.
The branches of ignorant sour grapes are heard outside
Wrestling with the walls of the windowless courthouse
While crooked thumbs hail his haughty majesty
Arrayed in arrogant robes at the head of the jury inside.
His scorn for you is as legendary as your will to survive;
His skill to divide less potent than your spunk to revive.
I’ll drink from your cup any day
Assured that your bitter taste
Is sweet remedy for any fray –
No matter how long in the day
It frees the feeble soul of the frail prey.
© Tonykata 2018
From Random Thoughts: A collection of essays and poems by Tony Ekata