Who ‘neath the dark of ego’s monument,
has’t prayed to god both of peace, of war,
but I, none other; too what reason for
than to save a self from its own descent,
Who amidst drunkards and harlots spoke
of the virtue in wine, the vices of a virgin
but I, before faith; falling prey to burgeon,
bearing the bastards of our heaven as yolk,
Of remorse; a thistle and solace; its garden
who didst gather all but bloods carnation,
malevolent; I, and far from seeking pardon
for transgressions less instead more elation,
And love, O but love; of flesh, of splendor,
like a sybarite’s; exiled, disdaining abandon,
I give unto ye, then unto ye I surrender
what is left of yours unto me, I imagine.