The Price

Oh, the price of my honesty:

pennies, coppers, no,

it is much, much more than this,

than that: I begin to long again

for that era of slanderous outrage,

of beautiful deceit,

in whose prickly folds was found

the little house of Death upon the hill,

in whose arms I sought refuge

once, ago. 

I am reminded that nothing lasts,

but such a drainage,

temptation to cheat

my way out of the crawl:

my ends don't justify

whatever means I take. 

In order to establish the Kingdom,

one must live like a King:

in rags, and utterly alone.



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Endless Writer © Ata Zargarof 2020

BC, Canada