Phantasmagoria, I was preached, is sin:
To clutch to dreamlings is ill-will;
To ponder about freedom is misanthropy,
But to succumb fosters good- will

An iota of irenic coexistence, fugitive,
Washes away rebellious thoughts? No!
Men, remains of flesh, tricked, eros,
Follow their desires, where the go?

‘Son,  to this earth belong we, transient
Creatures are we; have to dwell on ‘their’
Wishes, weak, weary, a love-in, common-
Touch; ‘they’ have teeth and scare.’

Worm’s eye view, attainder, yield,
Stop! Cul-de-sac! Walls! Apartheid Walls!
High! Not enough to thwart efforts to
Seek freedom, e’en via blood rainfalls.

First, you cry.
Cry until you cannot anymore.
Once more the grim prognosis will be read,
But no hope will be found there, I am sure.
No bargain can be made, no moments bought.
The cancer has moved quicker than we thought.

Even now, a bony spectral hand
Points across the Styx to the far shore.
Does sweet salvation wait?
Or do the Fates await to seek their vengeance?
I fear that we will all know before long.
I’ve read the Bill of Attainder :
We all face the same sentence.