by Jennifer Reeser
From lack of love, I will not ever die,
so may the stingy, cold, and lordly rage
imprisoned with pride inside his gilded cage,
conversing with a pretty, blonde, white lie.
And let them lift their glasses, raise a toast
to wish the whole world ill in ancient Greek,
forever finding fault. And let them boast
like Belshazzar who feasted, while the meek,
thin, ragged Daniel fed on yeast-free bread,
while understanding what the king could not,
interpreting what royals had forgot,
seeing the privileged one were good as dead—
that Love which made this vast, black Universe
his cure for any demagogue's blank curse.
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