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.
09/07/2016
Vancouver