Perhaps I was a ruthless Khan,
vengeful, without mercy,
who cut down peasants
by the thousands,
taking an unsheathed sword
to young mothers and their babes;
or I may have dwelt in dungeons,
coaxing heretics to confess,
beat remorse from wicked witches
and any soul who wouldn’t kneel
at the foot of the pious, Papal throne.
Was I simply just a gadabout
who cheated on his wife? A rogue
who left his children
for the warmth of a harlot’s touch?
Did I ridicule the Crown,
crudely scrawl on Cambridge walls?
Did my horse
trample Queen Anne’s Lace?
Had I ignored its defecation?
My dearest, would-be betrothed,
is the reason for your “no”
the fact I deserted my troops in the war?
Had I fled from German flags,
escaped an ambush out of fear?
Or was I incredibly initiative instead –
start a firestorm in Dresden,
drop a Nagasaki nuke?
Did I watch as the Chinese starved,
give my approval to the Red Star State?
If so, please forgive me my transgressions:
taking the Name
of the Lord in vain;
my callous killings of the innocent;
my drunken, playboy ways.
Impart to me your pardon,
your blessed, fragrant kiss –
not the one that Judas gave
but the caress of Juliet,
the embrace of Bouguereau, eternal;
the one that ends the cycle, trips
karma at the finish line.
Andreas Gripp
RF Image