The orphan sage
Once I was one and two and threeAnd sat upon my mothers knee
Midst cries of laughter joy, and glee
Her face a kind visage.
But then at age four five and six
Bewildered I was of life's tricks
As I learned pain of blackthorn sticks
In grimmest orphanage.
A lad now grown to dozen years
In crucible of fire and tears
His hatred for all men now rears
To remorseless endless rage.
At fourteen years, of tender frame
Within him kindles freedoms flame
A spirit grows, wild and untamed
A magnificent flawed montage
His keepers he would at last mock
He rids his chains and key and lock
He tramps the road down to the dock
And turns the tarnished page
His ship set sail that setting sun
It's cargo logged all but for one
The child the boy would man become
His tale no sad adage
For in the fullness of his time
His saga forged and put to rhyme
Rid self doubt, his only crime
The orphan now the sage.
Brendan.
Poetry by Brendan Finbarr Tully
Read 565 times
Written on 2006-01-28 at 01:17
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