I do not ask for youth, nor for delay
in the rising of time's irreversible river
that takes the jewelled arc of the waterfall
in which I glimpse, minute by glinting minute,
all that I have and all I am always losing
as sunlight lights each drop fast, fast falling.

I do not dream that you, young again,
might come to me darkly in love's green darkness
where the dust of the bracken spices the air
moss, crushed, gives out an astringent sweetness
and water holds our reflections
motionless, as if for ever.

It is enough now to come into a room
and find the kindness we have for each other
— calling it love — in eyes that are shrewd
but trustful still, face chastened by years
of careful judgement; to sit in the afternoons
in mild conversation, without nostalgia.

But when you leave me, with your jauntiness
sinewed by resolution more than strength
— suddenly then I love you with a quick
intensity, remembering that water,
however luminous and grand, falls fast
and only once to the dark pool below.

And rather die as a mayfly, in one day, on their feet,
Than live as long as an eagle flies, on their knees.

"...It's funny how one insect can damage so much grain...",
One instant can damage so much Grace,  

Yet, abominable that only 400 years of supposed science has almost
Destroyed what it took The Evolution 15 billion years to create, the Earth's life!

Extinction is forever and no one will wear it well, the corporate structure's
Convolution need not con anyone, we let them steer our perceptions and ships.

Walking in nature's balance, giving back to her abundance, "...we(e)...",
Illimitable in potential, and indivisible as life, evince to be!

"...They don't stand a chance against our ...(heart),
No, they don't stand a chance against our love..."

If you're lifelong students, self-actuating and evolving, leaving no footprints
That followed none, they will echo forever on, in all ways, always,

Only if humanity gains the sanity to abolish the 'use' of fossil fuels,
Thereby abolishing global defacto-slavery, as well.  Be well.

"...There's a beacon in the sky meant to catch your eye...",
Words weren't meant for cowards, be brave...".

The Cosmos can't stop us from basing global society on scarcity, instead of nature's abundance.
Tragically, our delusions won't be dispelled until that premeditated extermination of 7 billion.

Coarse granite slabs split the earth
glinting at the fractured sunlight.
Sly winds whip and lash the grass and gorse;
disconsolate skies weep upon the land.

Rain rushes in to bloat the meagre streams,
and gulleys slash the sinewed  clay.
Pulse and sluice.  Erosion fashions
new forms of contoured legends.

Ragged crows snag the horizon
blasted and cursed. Little else
between the walls of weathered stones:
hand-laboured one on one.

The moor muscles its independence,
frowning at the low land,
bragging to the skies
its ancient splendour.

Sinewed by the the ancient art
of tai chi, he forged the forces of  the universe
to lure a dreamer  into his lair. He stayed
silent as a spider; and with seamless
gliding of  limbs and fingers,
he entrapped  his prey like a moth
entangled in a cobweb. The sky
was bleeding then when she asked:  “How
can I walk  through the dusk?” “Just
follow me, I’m a pathfinder,” said
he. He whispered to her ear:  “Close
your eyes my child and trust your heart.”  
And to the tremor of  his voice he danced
her, deeper and deeper  into the night. Soon  
his lips dripped with her muffled sobs, the stench
of  his slobber drifted  into her pristine dream;
and he confessed:  “She came to me;
I’m innocent.”

as if pulling (on the tab)
prevents the continued closure
of the lunch box
oxen milling brunch
as it unfolds sinewed pasture
green purloining sunlight
oxen munching salami on Thursday morning
mourning the luncheon of Sunday
black black blackberries lugubrious
lubricate brioche freshness
pile of white pile of brown pile of pylons
pile (on the tab)
shots are on me
shots fired no casualties
oxen bagged lunches aren't as fun as pulling punches

Bones in the ashless fire
bright
from the growth of vitalic hands
from surpassing echo
of careless ground
letting all of the roads just
go
into the charging and dug-out
roads
as we walk in one body  
and the uncared for birds ate
with the cared for birds
lifting their heads up and down
in agreement
of shadow suns - sun’s shadow
the knuckled cocoons open
in the hemisphere’s grace  
that are not held back
by the dams that were fathers
to you
and the mothers eating their jammed crowns
of animalised peace
along with the ****
ha!
even they are cheered also, the hunters
of the field, arrows obliterating through eternity,
your heels creating, it
that song that tempers the cities reflection
returning mine
and season less unions inside,
desert storm, and warmed ice breathes
in toasts across seas
force open the laughing cage-

And the farm machine says:

“We will take more animals-
from you
tonight
we will
make you pay by the long tongue
of submissive crawl
and your livers
and liver brought
hum
by the hand-made knife
by the half-made, gesture

the horizons will laugh with boredom, at you  
pummelling dry, the mountains  
if you do not-

light!
LIGHT!
light...

(...//light.)”
...

throw ****** grunts like burping darts directly at the puddled lipped sky

run by, and through
the days of collapsing flesh
raining

Juggernauting mist!///

be unable to find sound

or sand hold

where the lights incept fog

and give it form,

be the crows in saliva
with no threat
as they fly by
between knife and bread
spewing cello grips
along the graffetied walls
of music
and moss burning teeth
in lines of paint  
into the secret wars
and charities
that nothing can touch
and the face at the end of that
brick’s
mind

is a welcome,
face

we walk by//////
sweeps that cannot
smell, themselves
at 5
a.m
fish shattering
by the entry
of our dive
into synapse blue - gulls bound to moon
the waves and the salt and ourselves
moments of dance
in conversation away from the roar
after the vermin
has roared
it’s last spittle
and has dispersed into low
figments
and the juice of that spittle
drapes over our shoulders
in curtainous glowing rocks

Come now junkerd star, trembling
gloats drooling with Cerberus' tears, through space
encountering unwashed books, and curving onyx lips
down hallow of easy river, of moor walk and gait
hares thump the ground of the fields, exchanging
the wilderness for sustenant flight, across it
up flow the silence as it reacts upon your gut
and sends sleep near lass and lad, back by a thousand hands of stars
into sewer skies of rats and eager swans,
growing from the dust of your gone fear,
the penultimate circles that cascade in the sleeplessness
of cigarette sounds and our waltzing vice
Hear Bound the stimulus! Of new sinewed blood
be the one trembling as the dwarf stars explode
into you, and our grips calm, sends them back
and are normal nights of coffeed jokes
sculpted from the clay of time
cascading outer vehicles driving along, the mocking hands glance,
and the hands of menace
ate artichokes
pealing plumes
and handing
one –
to you
the feet of your veins

pouring growth
of root
near mine
stopping only when

the roof top
is ripped clean//////////////

dry from every car, so that it settles
across naked architecture, giants in our hemoglobin
smile, the silhouettes, the wall, and the agonyless
streets, see our shadows standing to attention
devouring the suns toll-in the departure of our being

in the unwavering strikes of our dark hands upon the earth
that bring light to our iris, soaring,
It is this fortune that the soul gets to spend, only,
returning to the work, of life.

Morbid hallways swathed in death,
smeared with blood soaked discontent,
wrought with cacophonic lament;
this is my asylum.

Eyeless gazes pierce the veil
that separates my mind from Hell.
Though, thin's the shroud that shan't prevail;
this is my asylum.

Lipless, toothless, ear to ear;
these wretched grins sinewed with fear.
Putrefaction rots their sneers;
this is my asylum.

This is where the dead don't die;
this hellion mire's where they abide
with fleshless hands stretched toward the sky;
this is my asylum.

Asphyxiation, let me breathe,
lest I join these mortuous fiends.
Purge my soul; I shall bequeath
myself to my asylum.

When I consider, pro and con,
What things my love is built upon--
A curly mouth; a sinewed wrist;
A questioning brow; a pretty twist
Of words as old and tried as sin;
A pointed ear; a cloven chin;
Long, tapered limbs; and slanted eyes
Not cold nor kind nor darkly wise--
When so I ponder, here apart,
What shallow boons suffice my heart,
What dust-bound trivia capture me,
I marvel at my normalcy.

Part 1.

What wantless seeds attest to willing soil,
Each rooted finger delving to earth's core
In counterweight, as newborn limbs recoil
Up from the grave, to rise, to lift, to soar;
To marry gold above with gold below
As petaled faces bask in fiery glow.

In each low nook, on each high rising hill,
By narrow streams wending like living trails
Down through deep harbored vales where winds lay still,
Where night and shadows meet in mingled veils,
All sacred spots that nature calls her own
Know bounty of pure beauty fully grown.

Heaven to some, to some Arcadia;
Her lands enriched not by cold ore struck gold,
But by a blessed cornucopia
That wise men seek, but few will yet behold:
Into this realm a weary hunter treads,
As silent as a widow in silk threads.

His hooded face as weathered as a storm,
Dark eyes, a crooked nose, a fearsome chin;
Worn leather garb clung to his sinewed form,
Drab long cloak loosely clasped by silvered pin;
Old sword and dagger hung from side to side,
Short bow and quiver tarry not his stride.

Part 2.

The vestige trace long lost to eyes unskilled
Takes umbrage at his oft' requited glance,
And twisting like a ****** darkly quilled
To gift the puzzled reader bare a chance,
Turns this and that but all to no avail:
The hunter ever watchful of the trail.

Through field and copse, down to a steep ravine,
Plumbing the darkly deepness of a cave
That writhes through earthly riches like a stream,
Rising to spring like buds from winters grave:
Emerging into light as one exhumed,
The hunter pushes on, the hunt resumed.

For mile to broken mile the land retreats
To greet the rouse and sleeping of the sun;
As day and night dance gaily round their seats,
Taking a turn to sit on either one;
By light of sun, or moon, or stars, the prey
Sets firmer tracks each passing of the day.

Until a dawn awakes to shrieks of mourning,
One golden speck cries foul at visions edge;
Espying of the hunter's cruel adorning
She flits away towards a mountain ridge:
The hunter leaps, pursuing at a pace,
His prey is found, his hunt becomes a chase!

Part 3.

Arcadia delights in summer faire,
Yet all departed seasons lie within;
Protected from the ravage of time's stare,
They wander here or there upon a whim;
And to her borders, winter is inclined,
So comes the chill as summer falls behind.

Soft fertile plains give way to rocky climbs,
And mountain shadows mock sun's feeble stare;
Ice clung to stone, to sting all clinging limbs,
The hunter's eyes blinded by frigid glare;
His prey nearby, she clambers up the *****,
Her racing heart surged by false glinted hope.

Arcadia bade mountains rise up steep,
To keep her borders free of dint or breach,
And rising heavenward, each snow-capped peak,
An endless climb beyond all skillful reach:
The hunter clambers swift to shrink the gap,
And in a breath she falls into his trap.

A foxhole late encumbered with deep snow
Becomes her prison hemmed by harsh cold rock,
The hunter stands above, inclines his bow,
With silken string depressed by feathered nock;
One pause to blink before she pays his toll:
He stalls, steps back, and stumbles from the hole.

Part 4.

"Cold winds chill numb the hands, freeze not the mind!
What trick of sight gives light to such deceit?
Dare I to look once more? Pray will I find
My prey's own claws or tender dainty feet?
Treacherous snow lies deep, my eyes misled!
A beast I sought, a maiden found instead!"

"Kind sir, I find myself at your command!
Pray lend me arms no smith nor fletcher made,
But as my own formed of the sculptors sand
To shape the flesh into the mould he bade:
Pray open up your heart, come set me free,
For I would spy which hunter bested me!"

"Afore I gift my fingers to your plight,
Would you attest to count them fore and aft?
And pledge no claws will scratch nor teeth will bite?
And offer up the scheming of your craft?
A beast I hunt, yet here I catch no beast,
Be swift of tongue, the swifter then released!"

"Upon the sky that houses sun and moon,
The trembling mountains tamed by winters shiver,
The hills, trees, shrubs, vales, Arcadia's bloom,
The living streams, flowers like natures mirror:
Upon all things of worth if word be aught,
I gift my word, my ill to you is naught!"

Part 5.

Her slender form, as light as sleight of white,
He lifts up to assuage her troubled snare;
And looking then upon her wondrous sight,
With darting eyes for fear the sirens glare;
He feels a hammer strike a pillowed blow:
His lifeless limbs collapse into the snow.

"Fear not for words I gift are duty bound,
And bind me as a branch unto a tree;
Would I were fool to feast upon my hound,
My bonded words so too would feast on me:
But listen now, this nymph has had her fun,
The chase is run, the quest is just begun!

Arcadia opens up her vaulted gate
To fallen souls with honor on their name;
Not that bestowed where mongers congregate,
By kings rewarding those who **** and maim;
But those revered for kindly word and deed
Are born again through Arcadia's seed.

Live free to roam in Arcadia's haven,
Fish, hunt, give chase, for sport and for the thrill;
But heed me well, my bonded words are graven,
Open no doors to death, nor test his skill:
Death hunts you like the beast you thought to best,
Though chase be long, be sure he will not rest.

Part 6.

*Arcadia has but one proposition,
Be glad of heart, her realm cannot be broken;
But of your hand she makes a supposition,
You wear it still, a lovers gifted token:
All bonded vows should break upon her border,
That yours did not has brought her some disorder!

Though day and night swing endless through the sky,
No time shall pass within this hallowed glade;
Where once you stood, forever shall you lie,
One breath between a life and bitter shade:
Arcadia can open up her door
And with a breath, release you evermore!

Return to life, return to love's embrace,
Return to sickness, death and poverty;
Go now and lose all knowledge of this place,
Be troubled not by wistful memory;
This path once trod can never be unstarted.
Be warned: no path returns here once departed!

Here then your quest continues with a choice,
Remain within Arcadia's golden land;
Or live a mortal life and then rejoice
To greet your death when taken by his hand:
One breath to choose, one solitary breath,
Immortal life or yet a mortal death."

Words the counterpoint to our pain of existence;
Finely scattered fires, on the tips of arrows
Buried deeply beneath brooding flesh;
Blood seeking missiles, to destroy a lung or a heart.

If the syllables were aimed well enough,
And once my convulsing heart is all twisted and held
In the sinewed leather embrace of your quiver,
I'm busy reading my death in the end feathers.

Because a word is mispelled, and it takes my final breath:
I am impaled on your imperfection again;
That word is a secret message, that can fly swifter and straighter
To inform me, that you were thinking of something more
Than just dinner, and a hide to comfort old bones.

Dreams that collide in collective collaborations,
merging mercifully into identical imaginations.
In sporadic unspecified dioramas of decoration,
seemingly devoid of light, yet full of illumination.

Winds that billow in bellows of blue balderdash,
that hides these vague souls in the elephant grass,
as white horses run for an unconsecrated pass;
I sit sipping lightning from a small green flask.

I cannot see beyond this collision of cataracts,
sitting in a puddle of Alzheimer's and absent facts,
hard to predict parlor tricks' and posthumous pacts,
metamorphosis of those we ****** on, lies intact.

Veins constricted from catastrophes and contradictions,
synapses sinewed by audacious biannual addictions,
misdemeanors of malicious misnomers and maledictions,
breathing in the beneficent bleating of benedictions.

Dreams that collide in collective collaborations,
merging mercifully into identical imaginations.
In sporadic unspecified dioramas of decoration,
seemingly devoid of light, yet full of illumination

a stopping sort of started ending newing knewing sort of ended stopped and beganed sort of yesing sort of wooing newing
      sortofandalso
                                  alsok
    ­    i
         nd of stopped starting begunning
like well gee the summer was a nasal laughing roughness kind of sort of.
            i'd like to kind of
  or else to maybe
                                              with autumn who was distinctly haired
        in rich arresting dead
               that kind of starting stopping started
                                                                ­                    or well i'd like to think
     it,swellwhynotanywaybecause noone never didn't atall even in the big gabled church of dawn that strung the sky with gelatinous heaving fibers
all rabidly gesticulating puffy sansfinger hands grimaced on the slender naked
blue and black and bursting sort of kind of because sinewed fluffy hammers on because wrists because
                                               when you get all ***** in the mucky sterile daughters little pink little rose bud climbing open little rose bud up open big blooming like pink little sort of big sort of small sort of rose bud
        you kind ofwell you clean kind of your you you clean kind of clean it straight razor cleaning your you
          you cleaned with her big sharp little ******* all sharp and little and big under her shirts under her skirts kind of sort of because
                            that,s
                            w­her
                             e
                            she keeps it she
                            keepsitin there



                                                             ­                                                          summer:
she was unfreezing fresh squeezed lemon wedges sugar hilltops sweaty laughing nightmares in the big in the pale in the cordial surly pillow thick skinny heaps of gobbled luscious hot raining balmy slow quaking deaths every day i stood on that hill and i looked out over the city and she was really well gee sort of because.... . . . .               .                ,       ;       '                "

Loneliness walks hand in hand
With he who strides the long way forth,
With he who walks the path alone
Through solitary’s East and North.
Firm his sinewed hand so strong
That steers the compassed vessel back
Bridging pitfall’s chasm wrong
Through deft manipulation’s track.
Guiding they who pledge good faith
To fall then, by the wayside, weak,
Then in bridging disappointment’s song
Instead, he helps them to their feet.
So long that night of solitude
With stark decision’s crucial stack
When none would share that brutal loading
Weighing solely on his back.
Lonely is my leader’s song
Lonely as his dying day,
Would that he could share a word
Who would understand his way?

M.
17 October 2015

it was pretty much last night
it was, pretty much, last night
it was, pretty, much last night
it was last night, it was pretty
     much
last night
                the air was strings of farcical serious unheat
that clutched about our wayward
strips of
             meat
in a the street was a lot like
a neon painted carpet of a
trillion quick sparkles
glinting sorely
on the
immense nook of eve
where was huddled darkness' slinking cloth
a twill of slutty
colours                      they prattle on the door
ways                          on the hinges
and                           the unopened lids
of                               the fire cold skin
that my lady wheres the night like a carnal shrug about her
well sinewed luxurious shoulders;
to which i'm scuttling fingers
over her vibrant trachea
and down the small
premise of her
sternum
to the
able stillness
of her *******
and on their rush
my soul is molten wax
                                          and
                                                 verily
                                                           my
                                                                  heart   is      tooarapidstutteringglobe
                                                                                       at the blushing crust
                                                                                       of her softest
                                                                                       pinkest
                                                                                          !

hey and a big straight
ungoded in my stocky amber chest
   and caved open my super massive collapsing
      singing vermilion crooked
                vent
          that busts suddenly gradual voices
of ancient fresh lungs that i know i only know i don't knowiknowiknowIdon't
      and it's not that i won't
and surly
these manacles of flesh
                         and bones
and sinewed cords
                they scarf my soul and giggle sharply rapid
      imposing
stony breaking surf
                                       a largest grunt
        the universe said in me
                            and or i said back
                                                                        YES

Drain the sinewed brain

of twilight's limboed occult

help the humane rest

inspire our futures first

nightmares die
where good dreams live

this whole self
1 thing: i
so richly
in language
sinewed
will to say
a flower

a fully
uncoupling
hot bud
and i am a
season
(like Spring is)

i am a spit of
verdant boiling
fire(and i open

my chest

and out
ruptures

petals,

   .
       ,

   ,

<for my friends>

Poets, let us examine this friendship thing, again.

This is a poem of humans, regardless of our natural multi- flavored striations, that tend to over-define us, thus separating, instead of celebrating commonalities.

Like most things we enjoy, our five senses are the gateway to pleasure, even the pleasure of friendships.  They act in concert, a symphonic interplay that reenforces and heightens so that in combination they create a whole greater than a single sense could provide singly.

This is on my mind this week, as I wrestle to understand the meaningful possibilities, the limits of friendship.

Poets form bonds without hearing each other’s voices.

Poets connect despite geographic distances that makes grasping each others sinewed arms, caressing the softness of hard cheekbones, without ever having been granted the unique, all encompassing satisfaction of embrace, hugging.

Poets sometimes can hear but not see each other’s words.

Poets sometimes can see/read each other’s words, but never hear them voiced aloud in the authors own, true voice.

Poets sometimes cannot smell or taste each other’s words, though it can take a poem to another, higher sensory level of coloration.

And yet, a bond so strong forms that defies the conventional limitations of the physical. Should we share such a bond, them you know it, no need to ask for confirmation.

Words, can be gifted, without teleportation, even when and if the bridge of a shared spoken language is not extant.

This is nothing short of miraculous.

Just like friendship.

All my wrestling to true comprehend this state, for naught, for the miracle of words is like the color of water. Universal, invisible, but so varied, that it too bridges and is shared by every ! human body regardless of any human shape, color, form of the billions conceivable.

But wrestle I do nonetheless, for the pleasure of this (non?)soluble problem that both creates queries & quenches simultaneously, so I break off this thinnest wafer to share with you, offering this notional:

All humans are poems.

All poems are human.

Solve this poem for human.

(And ignore the wet spots of my watery, clear tears staining this poem).

walk over jagged
unrocks of sidewalk
sinewed hand of
shattered being
in suited business
grasping 
gaspingly
at precipice of curb
desperate
for purchase
leverage back
into living
slithering slowly
d o 
      w
          n
into survival
noone sees
the agony
crawling upright
on both
patent leather
feet

Lonely was anxious
Broken in her own dreams
Reaching out
Hoping for nothing more
Than companionship
Begging you to fall in
Grasped up your sinewed heart
Finding comfort in the walls of your chest

I want to go
To an open road
-A road that knows no bounds;
To find a bar that's been long dead,
Where The Wind has its only sounds.

So that I may drink of the only wine,
That travellers dare not reach;
Where the taste is so fine
Upon death's decline,
That my lips, it cannot breach.

Where the cold air tongue
Whips through its walls,
With only History's cross to bear,
I take up the saddle
From the rail outside
And saddle up
To the Old-Bones, there.

I might graze for hunger,
I might stop for pain;
The wretched past
Of lives long-last,
Whistle through my sinewed veins.

As I journey forth unto
This great canyon-grave,
Where old howlers'
Ribs be shorn;
By torrential storms
Inside their own enclave.

As part of dust we settle,
And to dust we return;
From all of those times in Life (we hope),
Were times we would have learned.

Ne'er shall it be an easy time,
For anyone to traverse;
The greater strength upon this night,
Is the Love for the Universe.

And when that Love has gone and left
Down along this dusty road,
It's right back to The Skies I'll go...

And re-open That Old Fold.

Its in the beats
the in betweens
staccato breaths
the staggered sighs
all nots are slipped
liberating why's
as pulses thrum
cheeks do flush
loves rhythmic drum
obeys no rush
gifting time to the need
on gentle knees
supersaturation
feed crystals seed
fractal light ignites
behind my eyes
glistened drops of light
unbinds sinewed ties
all felt in between
the pumps and beats
our rising passion
turns up the heat
fused together
dissolving walls
time cracks and shivers
as fervent breaths rise
to sighs ecstatic falls

J.C. 11/09/2019.

next to the flat
the neighbourhood
tabby swatting at
the drain.

sinewed fur-lined,
feline; finding
some poor animal
in a cage
outside its making.

i can’t see
below the earth.
the poor thing,
fighting.

Go, small song. Make yourself
known. Stretch your arms as sunlight,
glow. We humans’ leaves’ greens need you,
so, will you love us as our ears do you?
Wonder with me, throat, as you say
your notes and lengthen their dull to
soft nevers. The crowd still hears you
tomorrow, the last song before the final
closing of the eyes before godless sleep.
Coffins vibrate with your enthusiasms,
corpses know remorse, finally, like a
cracked ancient bell with some something
left. String me as *******
screaming in pillow fields. String me
as hazardous Lazarus sinewed neck-string
plucked as flowers, as slave-ships docked
upon the shore with gentle endless thud. We’ll
keep singing spirituals forever, we’ll keep
saying things about skin. We will win. Win
like mirrors lastly seeing smiles. Come with me
as stars die and are still witnessed. Inscribed
as pride in a mother’s voice with small
black boy joy, with tears, first cries, blood,
water
and the mother’s song mountain-heavy
and living.

The statues are eyeless in Iveagh,
ruins under leafed eaves,

effaced, pitted, blotted,
benighted green and wet:

they have heard far more love
than mine and hers, witnessed

others filled with beer, wine,
& whiskey. Forbidden fruit

rots on the branch. Magpies gather
by blue knees, curious and hopeful.

Crimes of the heart were committed
on that night. The sound of the river

sinewed through the cracked window.
The past was father of the present,

the sheets were stained sails.
Coffee was brewing in the evening,

corks rolled into corners,
whiskey emptied the memory.

Now it's years, years later:
I just walked on water,

the river would not collapse beneath me.
A friend sent me neon letters,

rain is due tomorrow,
and the kittens are restless.

I open a bottle. My lovely neighbor
is building a mirror before dinner,

she borrows a screwdriver.
I am guilty of everything you said.

I am guilty: but there is no jury
who would ever convict.

I am not guilty,
Nor created to be guilty;
Although I am human
You make me wilt.
I do not understand what it is
Keeping me up at night.
Is it the noise of your passing?
Wyrd forged me iron-sinewed,
Worthless, hard, and proud.
Regret nothing - in quick time it passes,
And you cannot shame me
With the guilt you wish I felt.
Why should we allow for chronic victims?
Your tears are warped power,
Merciless and violent in their falling.
Therefore, guilty or not,
I must consider myself absolved.