You sneezed your disapproval away
and the phlegm of your mind came
raining down.
                                    I didn’t move a finger.
                                    I had my mask on.

The insignia of the emperor, I don’t have,
for the sun that guides my path is bright
but not blood-colored. Your gang judged,
anointed not - I don’t belong, we don’t.
Still I wasn’t moved.  
                                     I have my mask on.

There at the throne, the jolly Governor
sat, flanked by the nobles of Royal Court –
all smiling, like full-grained opaque
white corn, where within the holding cobs
the worms had spread the contagion,
boring the core to pitiful emptiness. But
I wasn’t moved. I won’t move.
I know too well.
                                    They have their masks on.