Poetry

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I have not earned this position.
I did not fight for it.
I did not by vigilance advance and take the fortress
With bloodied fingers and desperate gasps achieving victory.

From the rankest hole was I brought here,
Translated from naked filth to glory in a blood soaked moment in time.
From sewer to stronghold transcendent.
In His arms ascendent.

Though I sit in conquest earned
By the Name which atones for my own
How is it I puzzle and fret and worry
Forgetting my position in glory
Clinging to metal and paper to guard me
To systems and paradigms already dead?

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