One’s the laden self that bows his head to pray
The other a rebel with a tattoo across his face.
Who’s the fool and who’s the wiser, who holds the cards?
And who is he, what’s his name, that’ll tell them apart?
Once a boy, now a man, a grown black man
One whose pangs of dreaded fear, make him a wanted one.
One gold-lock haired man who’s taught just one virtue:
His locks make him a better man, and none should argue with that.
Then there’s a girl in a town and a woman in a gown,
One infallible with her tweets, the other buried in the heap of deceit/mendacity.
The sun overhead and clouds above, know not who they serve
But we serve we that serves the ‘I’, different from birds.
Who’s the fool? Not I.
What’s his name? Not mine.
Where’s the wise man? That’s me.
I will tell all apart. I. Me. me.
And since we have molested the wits
These wits will light the inferno of Dante.
Am I at peace with this?