The Chalice

Nobody uses that word any longer, do they?

I used to hear it once in an often, after services would conclude,

Yet, perhaps, that is the cause for my dissimilitude, perhaps

I’ve been cast unto damnation, like so many other under-educated sots, suffering the

Fate of the intellectual, an illness purged from the seeds of the hollow voice,

Green and yellow, shiny and terrible, radiant goblet, chalice of shame,

 Goblet is a better word it seems, substance and a rugged, man-like charm,

As it was filled, a random splatter caressed the air,

 Fluid delivered by a man of the chair,

He seemed reluctant, fawning ignorance to mask the blame,

To guard his soul somehow, protect what is left remaining of its’ worth,

A contemporary incongruity I would claim,

But I wasn’t motioned, not this round,

But one time, a fractured song ago, there was this question posed of me,

Unable to properly answer, I beckoned for the crowds’ discernment,

Yet their answer had little to do with the man I am, but rested mainly with boy I used to be,

A pause conveniently flapped its’ wings, and offered a veil of ignorance, for which I could not hide behind,

And quickly this notion fell swift and fast, evaporating into chagrin and perturbed glares, from old and young alike,

Broken like a promise, my mouth agape, arose to speak, but instead of wisdom out spoke inconsistency

A misconception formed, bred through incorrect data and misquoted apologies,

 Collars grew tight for some, a moistened empathy from those who brightened the pink to my skin,

Without saying much I glanced above, to see the unlikeliest of sorts looking down to me, these eyes spliced the dimness well, a light was formed and pennies I tossed, which travelled to the well.