these last words

“Maybe you who condemn me are in greater fear
than I who am condemned.”―Giordano Bruno  
  
   
they jeer my poem, condemning it absurd…  
all i have left in me are these last words,  
whose pow’r, in every line and every verse,  
will end rhyme curse, and better make of worse.  
   
no routed tones rise where it hits the road;  
choked, in dust, my lyrics find no abode;  
for, every line, lock-laced with attitude,  
upon the prude and spiteful shall intrude;  
   
until the pompous stumbles from his throne,  
and peasants, destitute, no longer groan;  
until the hungering of earth be filled,  
and peace blooms, thrilled, from scars post-fresh-blood spilled.  
   
my epilogue makes no apology,  
snatching from fools their mock doxology;  
dreads it no king, fears it no nemesis,  
nor crumbles this from human prejudice.  
   
let these last words become my epithet,  
where vicious tongues fall short of alphabet;  
the judgment of my pen and of my ink  
makes vile men shrink, saves lost men from the brink.  
   
© Copyright 2022 December 28  
by Clyve A. Bowen♫