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The Songs of the Perfect and Just With the Cries of the Sinful and Far
Not even kind
in the least cordial of ways
not using, nor speaking
with a watered-down phrase.
This secret sickness,
this dearest disease
of nods, of knees,
of wants, of needs
murders me more
than hanging from a tree.
The sly hands
behind slyer backs
making jokes of the weak,
ignoring the obvious facts:
"The guilty will be set free
only for the greatest fee!"
And I pay no mind
believing I did my time.
(How little does my light shine
while I think that
everything is fine.)
If we would only
greet with honest eyes
and dying hearts
"I am no better than you
or even you!"- that's a start.
Make me see.
And you are no better than me.
