What might have I to gods' denials
lash out my tongue - a whip of slurs
so slushed my soul from wrath of hide
a retribution in pains form.
And still the marks implanted there
are shame and loss of manhood thus
my heart is torn far worse than flesh
and mind imprisoned, shocked by pain.
Tempered though I seem to be mad
mad, stark mad, am I in practice
whose head has eased by erstwhile pain
once cut through clean as lettuce should.
The laws of peace' archaic past
had such decreed my arm unfair
to slice from spine a misplaced mind
a heretic in voice and job.
No comments:
Post a Comment