Staring Back Into The Screen

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.