Beyond Redemption

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they both stand and sit in judgement against me,
poised upon the spare arms of Lady Justice,
with all the earthly grace circumstance—
and more often than not choice—denied them;
full grown perhaps, so that their chords might function
to form wellsprings of intelligent disparagements,
speech which they will use to engage at large
the court of Hosts, the veracity that shall damn me.

I can hardly deny their claims,
all I've ever wanted is to sell my pain to the world—
that I may know my suffering was never made in vain—,
but in embracing my changeling humanity,
a steadfast acquaintance escaped me.
that knowledge is mine now, however,
and though you may know it, I shall not speak it;
instead, might I inject this bit of inanity,
like what the title Frost/Nixon brings to mind,
(it leads me to wonder if winter never graced the White House lawn at any other time,
and if not, what blankets it in lieu of snow
when blackbird cold flaps its merry wings?
is it shreds of classified "for eyes other than mine only" documents,
which then like the Red Queen's inattentive landscapers,
Secret Service agents have to paint green in the dead of night
when the spring season threatens so that none might be the wiser...)
but I'm rambling,
and besides, envy of State secrets is a wasted pursuit—
I have my own arcane truths, equally admissible,
which shall tip the scales
to more than allow hellfire to lick deliciously,
to flay me to skin to bone to bare teeth...
come full circle haven't i?

o, and William, speaking of wasted pursuits,
might i just say, "love is not Time's wasted fool
who loves thineself for all the unkempt living of wasted pursuit."
"and what of harbringers," you ask,
"of self-destruction who tempt love into sin
and leave love to sin?"
in perfect cynicism, I reply,
"lust, and not love, is she who is Time's weary companion.
love is that which hath borne its marks indelibly into my skin,
marks which delineate nurture's worn casing,
a cask housed beneath concave literature
that nestled the sweetly ignorant in nurture's same weary sac.
no, lust is she who hath forged
those who shall stand and sit in judgement,
who roamed the vale of my dreams, a warning of their coming,
and most assuredly, their eyes will bear into me,
and in that observance... they will find me lacking."

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Image: Giovanni Segantini, Le Cattive Madri, 1894