Glory: the garish goal
Of our inner PR agent.
A hollow crown; vapid desire
Of emptied hearts, fleeting
And fickle, a mocking
Coquette fooling old suitors
Who should know better;
Disloyal to the last and beyond,
As the breeze that scatters
Our ashes away.

Glory!” The mournful wail
Of crushed humanity in
Its wake. An evil taste:
Residue of blinkered
Hopes and hardened hearts,
A lifeless thing, without
Soul or purpose or power
To heal, prompting always
The fateful question,
“At what cost?”

A funny kind of glory, then,
This ‘claritas’. No reflected
Reputation this, but the
Day within made visible:
First sight, enlightening
Light of unadulterated
Goodness; its power not
That which drags us over
Others, but rips us, reeling
(Not from home or safety

But from ego’s bandage, blind
Complacency, our carefully
Crafted imago sui).
Exposed, convicted (viz.,
Enlightened), stilled,
We find, perhaps, this light
Brings warmth, yes, strength to
Stand, stand with, withstand
In evil hours the evil powers
Of suffering, with joy.

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