From The Corner Of My Antique Eye Poem by James Whitworth

Theirs was a time of titans;
Of unrelenting progress onward
From the face of an arable age –
An acquiescence which its subjects
Weep in post-epochic codas
By the slanted light that rings
The birthing star they worship still.

A faithfuls’ cross the solitary sign
To occasion the place of their demise,
Tainted and, as yet remains,
Touched only by whose tongues recall
Though eyes no mark of witness bear;
Their given word, a word unknown,
Graces still the mouths of men
Whose single measure of success depends
Upon which side of hell they stand.

Where are they now? the enterprising,
Who, through their changes, dwelt
Enveloped in the compassed awe
Of a populace misunderstanding;
A people who, in innocence, shared
The dream, like many, in the greed of few.

Previous on those winding paths
That verged the verdant-splendoured spring
Of life’s determined range and route
Opposed alone a cloud-eyed sky,
Was found the single circumstance
Wherein all beauty lied.
Yet from the corner of my antique eye,
Uncoiled, I spy the hangman’s noose
Suffocate what remains of truth
In its captious wishing well of wounds,
Lighted by a capsized sun.