Power comes from the gun of a man who stands outside my home
He waits until I wake, poised silent and calm
Power is his, thus so are my cattle, my land, my people
Yet power comes from the man who gave this man the gun
Bathed in the colors of a general, the weapon was passed on
And power was handed over with speeches and roars
Yet power comes from the man who allowed this man to elect himself to give another man the gun
He stands in the crowd, cheering at pompous words
Or remaining still at home, sitting idle as another is self-appointed
Yet power comes from the woman who birthed and reared this man who allowed the man to elect himself to give another man the gun
She pushes hard but without noise, resulting in a child
She disciplines hard but without noise, resulting in a man
So power comes only from the mother of all of us mad sons
Who see only what stands before us, heeding only immediacy and fear
But now we shall say, “Good wife, come out and welcome our visitor”
Reblogged this on Nature’s Abhorred Vacuum.