It must be a delicacy on your severed tongue
As it curls against the edges of your sliced smiled face
Liberated from the constraints of obligation but pure the subject of philological pretense.
That in all of your days there is a swift motion
Bearing naught the weight of a purpose superior - no, never superior, than one\'s self
Tell me,
Is your burden so light that the yolk of the Sun shifts easy between your eyes?
For there is a stone with a cutting edge
At the pit of my bowels;
There is an elephant on my chest
Beating with its massive collapse, indisposed.
No longer does scripture give me pause to ponder, to reflect
But a legacy twisted around your fingers like a fluttering dandelion
Prostrated to grant you yet another wish.
If only a theft, robbery, or a deception of your character could placate me
Donned and adorned by this anhedonic flesh
Furled to the side like curtains to present the stage for the self-grandiosity
On display with every line and every stroke on this backdrop, bereft
Of any religious quality in any event
The audience goes without noticing the immense cause behind your genius
And its every last detail.