He Who Robs Me Of My Greatness

Under the counter, over the sill. Behind the oak trees
and over the hill, bundled in white drape left from before;
The man who I hated will bother me some more.

"You'll never be able, you just have no gift." An echolocation
returning quite swift. "It's good don't you see but not good enough yet."
Faint praised was my damning to make one forget.

Those who should help us now help us falter, our reasons to
give up a liturgical psalter. Invention and spirit, a tethered hawk's cry;
Passions left hidden and painfully shy.

So varied and clever the break-step confounded, then stepped down,
like fortress surrounded. Witness a greatness now reset to fail.
Look further still for the shackled soul's wail.

~Stuart Andrew Marshall Tanner~