All your invectives, I store;
Not because I want to cry
As I remember them but because
Stores house rags that dry floors
Till they become lucent and sparkling.
The last time you saw me,
You painted me as a church rat:
One that can only feed on paper—a pauper.
I smiled because my faith
Holds firmly to the fate of
Stumbling on a proper paper
That will change my status
From being the general state’s horse—
a driven-about driver.
In my capacity, I stored
Your eight speeches:
Ones that made me see the huge need
For the campaign against hate speeches:
I stored your words even though they bore my world.
Instead of a dampened spirit,
Your words energized me like spirits
Will do to a workaholic.
Your words becomes my drive
As I keep storing them.
And until my status changed from a driver
To a river that benevolently gives among rivals,
Your words will be my drive—hard as they may be.