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Perpetual disgust he held for those

Who painted themselves in a skewed light. 

He held truth in the ineffable

But definite in his own. 

These personas people draped around them,

Borne of shielding the defeats of the prior,

Were inorganic, not of the truth he knew to be it. 

Days spent waiting, sitting and waiting

Waiting for such truth to arrive.

He had too much pride to love himself

From what he knew to be ineligible for himself.

So no he would not forgo such pride,

And make effort for that unwarranted.

He craved for something to turn him,

For something to move his legs, out of his bed

And build itself on this foundation seamless. 

But in the meantime, he pondered, criticised.

You who deem yourself happy

From what you have willed to be it.

You are the ones who shall die denied

Of such truth that he awaits.

You who have built an esteem

Off of self-warrant

That has come from refusal of wrongdoing;

You are the ones who shall be alone

Amidst the crowds of the likeminded. 

He was superior. That was a truth. 

And waiting would surely serve him.

But by Christ he was scared.

For what if this was not a truth.

What if what arrived did not serve him as he had wanted.

As he had so carefully thought out. 

What if the self he saw for him to be,

Was what had disgusted him most.

What if he was to be happy, prideful

Based on the triviality of life

Rather than the incandescence of truth. 

He was sure, however, that such a thing would not happen

If he were not to move from his place.

For either the truth would come,

Or he would go.