The Clothes Have No Emperor
An old child’s tale
tells of the naïve speaking
of one who doesn’t know any better
but… knows better. Not seeing what
others with vested interests don’t
see – but who will not, in fearful “wisdom,”
speak
It is a tale of imagined
splendor, woven of words
without substance
literally
without substance
woven words become opaque
in placating one who
cannot will not see
blinded by unimaginable
hubris
Our modern version
twists
as, blinded it seems,
by the same powerless pride
emperors and wanna bes
appear fully clothed
armored in Armani splendor
holding symbols of power
position, place that ought
have meaning
but… don’t.
perhaps another child
is needed
to point out
the clothes
have no emperor
and cannot make one
meanwhile we
living in exile
are subjects
not of emperor
but of king
most known
most fully known
in naked splendor
bleeding out in
love
clothed in glory
dazzling in splendor
becoming through
suffering
the King of all Kings.
Lord of all Lords.
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