All But Dead

To attend Barbarian Branden’s funeral
And to not damn the wretch deprave,
To speak not aloud of her treachery,
Nor to spit on her pitiful grave,
Were attending one’s own dark funeral,
And piling up dirt on one’s head,
And Harriman now is a nary man,
Nary good, nary true, all but dead.

He who leaps to a lie and a liar
Is first cause in himself of his shame,
And the logic of spirit’s waste fire
Has naught but itself to blame.
Evil draws itself down in its clutches,
Dishonesty drives out life’s spark;
The casket swings open for Harriman
And _her_ claws pull him to the dark.

This entry was posted in Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s