The eleven bowed…by Mettabel Okulaja

I was hated, because He favored me
Deeply despised for being the chosen

No kind words had they for me,
All on account of my Robe of Grace

They hated even more violently,
When I told of my dream

That I would stand, and eleven would bow
As once again it was told to their face

With hatred my robe, torn from me
Doused in the blood of a slaughtered goat

Evidence proffered, the mark of an aborted life
A father’s broken heart, a lover’s bludgeoned spirit

Stripped and sold off a slave
Bodily bruised, physically battered

Bartered to the highest bidder
The price of a soul discarded as dung

In captivity was laid captive
By the wiles of she who lusted

And once and again cast aside
On account of that which set me apart

Now and again in hellish hole, shackled and bound
The screaming in my soul: When will this agony end?

Yet and again, amidst filth and foul
Dream revived in the dark of the night

While voices without, taunted and jeered
Deep within the light brightly burned,

Living witness defying containment
Refusing to die, my dream would not let me be

Light at the end of the tunnel, Illumed but once again suddenly dimmed
For a hundred score, and a hundred and thirty days

Till by a dream once again summoned
Cupbearer’s prompting, Pharaoh’s command

My heart divined its time had come
Dreamt of, spoken and now approaching fulfilled

From Promise to Pit, Pit to Potiphar
Potiphar to Prison, Prison to Palace

The prophecy fulfilled.
The eleven bowed…

© AdePero Mettabel, Jan 31st 2013

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