“May they be scalded at the post,
Drape from the limbs upon our pine,
Inscribe into their stripped bare skin
They are the weak, the faulty, of sin."

I could compose a ballad of time,
Profound, compelling reason and rhyme,
Impeccable stanzas,
Phrasing flowing as a river—

As could all of us,
But what impact would succeed?
To pirouette in the aching of others,
Leer in their ******, their night

I’m a dashing *******!
Bound from birth to do nothing but receive
While others around me
Shall pale, wither, die

Never for any other
Have I so much as cried...