Into the pocket
falls a tentative hand;
the first time rattles the nerves
like a dilapitated birdcage.
The canary breathes it's final breath
as from behind a shoulder,
an inquisitive stare warps slowly
into vehement brutality.
A sinless mass emerges,
ready to cast the first stone.
Righteous fists meet stupefied flesh -
The odium of the people.
The illusion of glory fades,
as an empty hand clutches the gravel.
It begins to rain -
a retarded fallacy.
Ebenezer Kneller
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/pocket-2/
