What acclaim is there
for the man who breaks
the heart of a *****?

What worthwhile service
can assuage the soul
so torn in malcontent.
He prophesies of Eden
telling Eve to hide her shame
in lieu of his land perfected.
"What other hell do you threaten?"
He claims, "Fire! Fire!"
But her lungs hold smoke
to keep hands from shaking
breaking spirits and homes
as Priest rushes
to the safety of Soap Box
lightheaded from the height.

What solace is there
for the arsonist in the convent?

His speech its own
blend of herbs and spices;
sour prepositions
and capsaicin soaked subjects
caught in the heat of judgment
like some wrathful deity,
holier than thou.
Resisting respite despite
facing the fire of his deeds,
the innocent frolic, carefree.
He finds he
is the tinder,
caught in his conflagration.

What pity have we
for the lost life of kings?*

Caught between revelries
and pomp,
caustic circumstantial froth
from his echelon elect
as we revel in flames
and fight *** with sins.
You know these things,
see them, taste them.
Spiteful planet, we adore thee,
eschewing humanity
with piety and privilege
and soft-spoken actions wont to liberate
the conscience.

Sing me the song of the sword
and I won't say a word.