Poemander

Its not what you believe, but it is whom you trust,

Not even what you willed, but caliber of arms you've wielded.

The critique's heavy blow can barely raise the dust

From parchment and the inks so vehemently shielded.

I am at war, my lord, don't hold me for my word,

Nor bring me up to justice: I fought in her cohort.

Those battlefields are strewn through with noble pursuits,

Her banner of the ignorance I've flown in defeats.

Those who unsheathe the sword, must swing it like a swordsman.

Intent withhold you not from arm to bring upon them.

Those who inflict with words must set em loosed like bowman.

For each and every thought holds powers of expounding.

They know me not, your honour, and probably will never

Contain or consort to what I hold so dear.

I'm merciless in empathy, I've given up on hopes.

In service to humanity you'll leave a pile of robes.

They'll counterfeit your statements, and thus has been so ever,

Benevolently staid, conveniently pare.

They'll hide behind those virtues, testimony laid bare:

If you ruled any different, I wouldn't plead, I swear.

The freedom so stupendous, they don't know how to handle.

In thrall of own possessions delusioning the senses.

Those bodies they have fattened with flightless ambitions,

Adjourn this needless session: game hardly worth the candles.

Refrain from consolation, I have no else to call it, but human condition.