could i lift myself in my own upturnèd hands
and you drink from me, you failure of a man
you failed, failed, abdicated man
you pretender to god
do you not see what you’ve wrought, and not?
do you not see that my presence here
is not nobility and strength,
rather illness and taint?
and this convent is no refuge
rather just a box you’ve built in which to lock me,
your soul
and the other animals at your feet
are like me,
only meat,
to a man gone running
from his soul,
from me,
you son of a whore