asked to lie between, two strands of quicksand
in weaning veritas, in asking sanitas
made to say what in sanity, is vanity
Queen of Chance, will I find you?
as I sail away on a tapestry of intrigue
and circumstance, how to stray true
to the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and rebel against the rule of blue blood
redeemed in wads of green mud
give no-face, no fears, and most of all
no desires that poor thing could turn against you
treat it for what, and who it is — the wolf you feed
No comments:
Post a Comment