Thought he ought be made calculable,
Though more he thought made culpable,
Did bear witness his instincts so cruel in cage,
No less he saw himself his past is writ to page,
For he cannot see past himself the man he ought,
As it was always the animal he better sought,
So leapt from birth with tears of agony and despair,
He could not surmise first his straitjacket to repair;
Donned since birth and so carry to his death,
Not in silk, not in wool; nor blood nor breath,
But it shall be his skin, tis only one to show renew,
And so he makes reason for suffering in shadow’s hue,
To bite the tips of skin from finger and thumb to pass,
If not his art shall then seek needle in skin trespass;
If it is not in ink, then it ought be substance to crave,
So walks in, ready for a mane joked be bought deprave,
Now he’s a new man in black and white: no single lie
For bigger times ahead and then his instincts deny,
So too he comes at large once more he swears divine,
So he makes mask for himself and swears all to wine.

Category:
Life, Poetry, Works
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