For Naught
A poem.
To speak the word in a kind of naïveté,
Crudely, we say,
A donkey, or some such beast cursed to
Preordained stupidity.
Instead, the mighty is:
He of roughshod wit, crude manner, and bared teeth
Possessing a certain prowess.
Extracting elevation,
Through natural domination.
And yet,
Here lies the feeble,
Whose existence of sheer nescience,
Succumbed to nothing more than
Mere nature or circumstance.
Taunting the grand man
by his very hand.
As grave akin to grave
Renders his brute ways
Of no significance.
