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.

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