This is George...
George is perfect:
These suburban moments, high times/9-5 workman;
easy smile's, single child, divine wife before-hand.
A shorthand masterpiece damp in plaster screen,
shaped to master mold of the olden pastor's preach.
Picnic plain smirks on sermon Sunday's after church;
family scenic- seamless overcast of Monday's worth.
And
... at the sign of every forth Sabbath, you'll find George:
on the park bench with Diane passing time with birds.
Some would call it perfect, and they'd be right-
under the sunlight's surface... this is life.
George is just so perfect-
Business class with clean grass, plastic picket fence,
freshly snipped hedges and a savvy business sense;
a spotless credit record a top his faultless gesture-
champagne remains from fires of all success let burn.
Dollar bill solis beneath the land fill- collared zeal modest,
flipping quarters to homeless stand stills to feel real profit.
He's your saint's model: stair then paint the late model
and make- hoping to create the same subtle of great.
And
... with the descent of thundering praise he remains in content,
twiddling his fingers until Diane and he may sing in lament-
repent and remorse, cry-choke, regret that bond that broke
once over in another time, were love had gone past hope.
But George is still perfect-
He sits in the pews on two knees pleading his dues.
God doesn't choose any one favorite he listens too.
He sings those perfect final hymn notes to observant vinyl,
under God's worship the Bull-God still deserves his silo.
It makes him uncomfortable
... the attention that is- it doesn't sit well on his soul.
Beneath the limelight he's wide eye'd and clenched teeth
breathing heavy until 'leave me alone' those breaths seize.
But it's over; he stands and turns over to shake hands:
'Thanks be to you' he spews to a man with pacience.
George remains perfect-
But
... he goes alone today;
Walks through the park with his heart following two
hollow beats, that mark the pathway to a wallowing bloom,
and then the two paths hatch on another blue Sabbath;
they sit in silence, beneath the past of violence to stab at
some form of civilized life with Diane to mask the new mavericks.
George just sits patient, breaking bread for bird wings
while listening for the dove's greatest tune of togetherings...
But
... it never comes, a tear never runs- a hue never blooms
and the two never reunite- they just lend their solitude.
So he frowns and she stairs and he cares but she's proud-
and can't bare to take his apology now...
so he stands, softly kiss her hand and sweeps her cheek-
gets on one knee and speaks,
'I-I'll just see you, in another three weeks.'
George is still perfect-
But,
beneath the unknown,
his cognito is hideous;
the tar on his hands wont
rub off with soap and spit,
and this city will worship him
... at least until the autumn foleage.
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Originally Posted by atticus
