By Cleats Ob-skewered

The concept line was clear enough:
The woman's boot was plenty rough
As it descended on the men
Whose collars white on black pretend –

To carry on, but inwardly
They've fled, for they could clearly see
What lay ahead – the boot with cleats
Destroying all within its reach.

They fled from right to left to right;
Fled forwards, backwards – could not fight
For power dark with surface gray
Had greenish skirt behind its ways.

The sun shone on its hopeful day,
Blue sky above, around, for play
With scattered hope – false hope it was,
The orange and the greenish cause.

That boot – a lace-up, blackish cap
Well-rounded, looking good at that,
While cleats below and spikes of spire
Ob-skewered the clergy's life-desire.

The carnage came in from up above;
Not from the Father's sacred love,
But from a drive for power and cash
Which turns the faithful's heart to ash.

They fled the terror like the French
Of Robespierre, disguised as wench;
What really drives this forward thrust
Is cash and power's two-fold lust.

It masquerades as this and that,
Whatever suits its age – but cash
And power are there through history
For all who have the eyes to see.

Since long before Apostles came,
Destruction of the best's the game;
Not much has changed, just format, style,
As bad drives out the good mean-while.

The use of hope held cynically
As shining ruse for some to see,
To lure the skittish from their nest
That they might die just like the rest.

Just like the Germans – make it look
Like all is well, while Jews they cooked –
If one can keep the lie alive
One can achieve, and need not strive.

“They came for one, and then for next,
Then came for me – some fake pretext;
Then who was left to rescue me?
Not one – the terror was complete."

That was the theme of volume four –
How institutions skewer and gore
The good, so others get a grip
As they move forward – bodies ripped.

Twixt sky above and earth beneath,
The tyrant's boots give no relief;
What can I say? – it's plain as day
The boot ob-skewers – rest run away.

If it's to stop, go roundabout –
Attack above, behind; no doubt
For me because relentless boot
Ob-skewers its drive for power and loot.

That is our sad reality –
To wait around ob-skewered to be
Is not my high priority –
Or from that cleated boot to flee.

Another picture is desired;
A different point of view's required
To keep perspective in the fray,
Till victory come Jesus' day.

For really, boots of local lout
Are miniscule, what e'er their route;
To God they're insignificant,
Their prattle but a whispered rant.

It's just to us, of Lilliput,
Who find ourselves now underfoot
Of local giants, ants to shoes,
It's us who have so much to lose.

So maybe change my point of view –
With Christ in heavens – where they lose
The final battle – though we die,
We sigh with him perspective's sigh.

Now that's a different point of view –
From universe – I can't see you;
We get to choose from where we'll shoot
Our photographs of tyrant's boot –

From underside its grim indeed,
But up above excessive greed
It's not impossible to view –
The change is coming – who's the fool?

So maybe that is what I do –
I give perspective midst the cruel
And vicious world in which we live –
To underdogs new hope I give.

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