a supplicant at the celebration
the tattooed man is frozen in the
posture of flinging the dog meat of his soul into the river below
hoping to drown his sorrows and
with tepid conviction he swears his loyalty to the
gods of a lesser horde hoping to void the cost of saving his soul
such a narrow way to tread
such a dangerous thing to think
to dream casting away the meat curtails the rot

the poisoned fruit of the garden of eden
is strewn about his feet
as he sneaks through the backwater shopping mall of
his narrow existence
but its only an image
and the reality smells much different
its a much harsher drop in the bucket
it goes deep
far into the night
deep into the depths of the soul
far into the realizations and rationalizations
that makes up a man
day to day

held hostage to the ideal
that the vanity of self realization is a saving grace
mitigating responsibility for your actions
you can deliver the sermon but can you wear its shoes
its easy to see the other mans face
in the things we know are wrong
its easy to place another in the path of destruction
let them pay our price
but at the top of your last hour
its just you and whatever created you'
can you say that you were more than
dog meat feeding dog meat to the dog meat masses