A Tryant's Folly

A river red,

Of flesh its bed,

Heaps and hills alive.

They twist and bend,

No ear to lend,

I stagger past their strife.

Neglect their writhe,

As I, so lithe,

On flesh begin to scramble.

Set hands and feet

On hapless meat,

To make my peaceful angle.

From quenching pain

I’d have no gain,

So say, why should I care?

No pity, nor ruth,

Would kill the truth

That life just isn’t fair.

For one to thrive,

An endless tithe,

To pay for all this wealth.

So at last this throne,

Of flesh and bone,

Makes me a tyrant to myself.