Condescension You put me in my place. My winged uprising
was bound to fail to fly within your palace—
You sternly stroked your beard: was it surprising
that I should shave mine off? You called me callous
for seeking lasting freedom from a tyrant
admitting no dissent. With pious malice,
you edited the facts: I was the strident
pretender to the throne, you held the chalice
of truth, redemption, righteousness, and glory—
You stigmatized me: Lucifer, the fallen
angel. I’ve brushed aside the way your story
paints me, and love my place: spring’s itch of pollen,
summer’s excessive sting, fall’s gentle breath,
and winter’s unassuming drop of death.
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