I'm tired, so tired
They look into my eyes and some
some hold their gaze.
What do they see I wonder,
what would they say
if walls between crumbled?
I'm weary of the game,
weary of throwing up my soul
in dark alleys so that the yellow men
won't know that I'm considering their offer.
Cicero was right though, **** him
all is indeed vanity and it is my lot
my cursed blessing to be able to see
through the tides of ******* nearly
hitting the high water mark.
It's an old game we play,
I the Jackal, and they the fat takers
those peddlers of ease, the green frog skin men
the flimsy platters of slot machine tokens,
the pale promise of pleasures unending
if only I sign on the dotted line,
in triplicate and also a thumbprint
and also we'll need your social plus two pieces of mail.
Whenever I get a bit too far gone they're around,
pushing their world with far better skill than
the very many dealers I've bought release from,
and yet the ultimate deal remains the same:
give us your identity, your fire, and in return
you need not suffer any longer.
It's a decent offer I guess, but they push a bit
just a bit too hard to play it off,
they always show their hand too soon and I know
that for some reason they want me more than
I want the release they have on display.
Sorry boys, I'm not the guy you're looking for.
I do have my moments, I'm a deeply broken
scarred and horribly imperfect person
not above taking bribes or stealing to survive,
lustful, greedy and wroth.
For all that you misjudge me,
thinking perhaps hatred of those who've
cut me so deeply could be useful,
failing that, hatred of myself would
perhaps be more beneficial to your plan.
Go ahead then, cut me away, turn my love to ash,
pull my once bright courage down into
the slime that brought down my grandfathers.
Do what you will and I will indeed despair,
indeed I despair even now, loveless and alone
exiled or freed I know not which.
In the end it doesn't matter,
for you are just as berift as I my enemy,
and we'll meet face to face one day
upon the shore of a distant sea
or perhaps in the darkest heart of
the great river which helped birth us.
Do your worst,
that which you do unto me
you do unto yourself
poor beloved shadow of mine.