O horde of lepers: I shall not haunt
curdling pastiches. He lives in the rose, beside hurtful matters he feeds me.
Seething pressures my souls and rides me down white paths toward tame snakes.
Eating so, I balk at the alleys of wealth. He beats me, I hear no revels. You are my guide with your shoddy half of grizzled outrage.
Your head a fable to bore peons; height of woes, you appoint my dread and foil, my cup overthrows.
Overly good, guessing why it’s allowed me all the ways of strife. I call hell the house of the Lord, for the tears that call it home.
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