I Wonder If You Always Tell The Truth

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I walked a wire between two mortal points
The worshipped sun was neither crutch nor cane
To aid my cause; that tongue of fire had burned
His final breath and broke a poisoned dawn
An age before my circled path was drawn.

The lettered lives of those who came before
Have sunk into the stone that bore their name,
These silent slabs have swallowed their remains.
No make or model promulgates their tomb,
A weather’s hand has worn them from the womb.

In black between a beggar and a king
And furnished by a nondescript relief,
A mound of earth defines the universe
Where, coffined in a rich man’s mausoleum,
My body wears the ragged edge of ruin.

This life no more than lines in quiet dust,
Dichotomised I pray that I am not
An optimist amid the blank decay,
Whose fantasy’s remaining act’s to make
A leap of faith across a martyr’s grave.