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Slithering as watchful eyes tarry and elsewhere travel,
it would seem their feet are stayed.
But there is no encumbrance for those without
the weight of remorse.
The scales are imbalanced with the twist
of their pale, contemptuous forms,
baptizing the herds in their discontent.
Such was the promise made,
and still exalting arms demand its scald.
Truth cannot pierce what has been built stone by bitter stone
to meet their envenomed hearts with accolades.
We can merely watch as the opened wrists
of ones caressing jaundiced faces
are filled by the sallow fangs of those worshiped and loved.
The pen is no mightier
when it illustrates their image
and sings their praises.
May such refrain fall on deserving,
deafened ears.
A shield of forked tongue made,
to with teeth and venom strike the ardent hand.
Justice festers in the mouth of those
who sing their praises.
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