He is a stoic, struck in stone.
Of noble brow and high cheekbone.
A striking, singular, face composed
And divided by an autocratic nose.
His liquid eyes are languid pools
Of dark emotion, sly and cruel.
His lips, perhaps, are a little full,
For a thin smile, apt to drool.
His tongue hides behind perfect teeth,
To spit venom from underneath
A studied beard and manners schooled
To rule the fears of knaves and fools,
And hurl invective at the godless world
Of luxury and corruption.
He recruits his legion from callow youth,
And those afraid of life, claw and tooth.
These desperate failures of the fundament womb
Retreat in cells of apocalyptic gloom.
This bacillus of hatred and righteous wrath
Burns bright as the candle to the suicidal moth.
The determinist dogma of revealed truth
Breeds killers, callous and caring both.
My friend, Osama. Of this fondest embrace.
Will he be martyr to the demented, debased?
Is he the lamb that lies with the wolves?
Is he the chosen, vile nature approves?
My friend, Osama. Who can know his true fate?
But to be damned by the many, a mad icon of hate.
David SmithWhite
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/my-friend-osama/
