The Powers Which Control You Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The powers which control you
Are too great to understand.
You stand there holding his
Silver hand—

The moon floats uncannily
Grinning her wicked plans—
The unfortunate kings,
Lost in the forest,
Transform into stags—

We are hunted by our own sons in
The darkening pitch of our autumn—
You are still playing with your
Father’s guns,
And he goes down on you
Fumbling his tongue—

The powers which control you
Are too great to understand.
You stand there holding his
Silver hand—

The powers which control you
Are too great to understand.
You who have walked so far away
From our summer’s plan….