The Conclave
© 2013 Rolland G. Smith
A sea of black in pates of red
Convenes to talk in ancient tongue
To seek the one upon whose head
The ruling mitre crown is hung.
Tis fate and faith and bargain’s tools
That choose the one who now must head
The Cardinal corps and vaults of rules
All gowned in white until he’s dead.
Would that the Spirit find the one
So blackened smoke soon turns to white.
There’s only one, as champion
To lead the flock for future’s sight.
When crimsoned shoes are finally filled
And blind obedience secure
The one in white will try to build
New ways to keep the faithful pure.
Blessings on you, new Pope to come
You have traditions old and new.
So choose a path that's premium
Despite objections from the few.
And thus upon the rock you stand
In fragrant truth and visions cast.
You are the one, now in command
Reform the now, repair the past.
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