The charge
It’s a charge of the most
extraordinary kind
when the force of love
overrides a destiny
thought safe and secure
by a mind not open to more.
But no mind can resist a preordained move
declared and decreed a necessity
by the master of human-like puppets
behind the scenes pulling the strings
and forcing its will on the poor.
And, yes, I cry and bemoan, bewail,
until I align with the knowing that I
and only myself I’ll have you know
is the one who pushes and pulls
and sends me packing and sealing boxes
like a factory worker.
They pile to the ceiling because the charge
knows order must yet be maintained
in the rush and scurry to be somewhere else
like the peak and pinnacle of love’s ecstasy.
Yet boxes and strings and most everything
weighs a mind down and plants it on earth
and a mind must be free to go anywhere
but it can’t you see without “you”.
There’s always a “you” somewhere in time
that allows an escape for an immature mind
into that place behind the scenes
where all masters convene to plan strategy
and say whether I love or not.
So I do what I do and think what I think
until total denial and ignorance
makes of the master a stupid fool
who neither can speak of the ground rules
or enlighten the sadly bemused.
Excuse me please but I’m just a “me”
who meekly follows the boxes!
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