Tuesday, October 12, 2010

to the painter who would be king

i guess i will let you burn this one out---
this fatherless turmoil renews itself
by swift turns and self-proclaiming clout,
ladder rung, echelon, hierarchic shelf,
at least you see there are these planes upon
which we are judged before the self ascends,
but you got mixes flowing in you son,
that skip beginnings, genuflect for ends,
and muddy the middle waters with vice.
because now you burn, now is time for ice.
you are not the king. more, you are broken
inside, warbling in perfect trees your flaws,
all who hear may never see who's spoken,
you are a conscience, just a painter of laws.

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