For with due pneuma I do then forgo
Linger like an unheard echo in a vale below.
Like I am a lie, I am the fiction you left unread
A wound upon a spool, a mere slain thread.
Freedom is a rippled mirage, a mere delusion
Merged into a primal being, I am just a standing illusion.
Surmising the winds are about to come
Like a malady in disguise, till I crash and succumb
Endure to be a mere grain of shifting sand,
Linger to be felt, to be groped with the slaying hand.
For I muzzle my voice, with honor and shame
Bleeding like a butchered kine yet a leaping flame.
Like I sway in the standing crypt of my own blood
In our town of wasted honor, brimming in a fuming flood.