The Stagnant Fool

I have outreached and cradled the dawning inks of my eyes
And hung my neck, hands bound, to Virgil's desk of eternity;
My purpose, to your reading slightly, is that of the locksmith who lies
And binds chains to the peripheral of the internal trinity.

The brothel of the mind, the disgorger of pathetic youth,
(Our curved praying lips) rages my despised distractions;
Golden palms bleed and distill cheap liquor from soothe,
We're wavering slightly to the mirror of divine reflections.

I am the popular whore, always presentable, a historical objective distain.
Our burning bell tower, sweetly tuned to age, coughs hymns and lullabies,
Remedies, hollow spire of smirking paradise, for an embarrassed ordain.

I understand hatred, -how could I? -, common roars and boring insecurities.
Siddhartha patiently blooms outstanding masterpieces of selfishness,
While, I, the lonely fool comically crafts the reason for cosmic purities.