Queue

Running, running to yell...
Changeling, holding tight the trouser
With mawkish demeanor
He took the lane to the nearest shore
Blackish eyes tell the tale
Of the grail..
The seed He bore

The seed it got was not so cherished
Someone threw it out of anger
Might be he was afraid
Though not unblemished

The cretin got the hold of it
''Throw away'' said the cowards when
It played the game of ''tossing''
When the shameless closed their eyes
And the rich were out of self-restrained
To grab the chances of sanity and fame
The ''toss'' was what they waited for, they baited for
And what is more it was a moron..

The lane ended with some broken bricks
Sketching the last rubbles of stairs
Was sitting the man with the golden stick
Unnoticed, unheard from the mundane affairs
A flash was what he was waiting for
Searing blasphemy he has ever adored
The sinking souls he has foiled, can never touch
A cast away with God embroiled
His hands were raised and the final embarkment
Lost again into the crowds of sins and folly,
Where now there moves around another insane
With a golden compass, truly holy..

When redemption was on the heads
I couldn't help pushing the threads
Of sanctity holding me tight to behold
To bring me up to the mighty threshold
And even when people ran after
I ran faster, after a moments falter
To grab the stick, again to reign
To consecrate, to live again..