Sheathed In Silk

Unsuspected, the blade sheathed in soft silk,
as we blindfold ourselves with the attire
of kinder roles, as if kin to the ilk
of angels whose white wings often aspire
toward toplofty clouds, though we steal from
the calf its milk, or the lambkin its veal,
to render the comforts of our kingdom;
the wool, the cream, the calfskin, each filling meal.

How stained are our hands with the coins we snatch
from the pouch we slit in a neighbor’s throat,
that crimson pouch without zipper or patch,
which, once opened, now gapes as the scapegoat
sacrificed to devils for devotions
while we bleat like innocent lambs lined up
for slaughter—Bravo!  Our martyr notions
would have us, shameless, on such scapegoats sup!

But lo! The blade betrays its brutal truth,
reflecting killer in a crimson sheen,
the guilty stained with victim blood, forsooth,
and not so easy a thing to scrub clean,
nor does silk conceal the guilt wrought therefrom,
but bleeds through, leaking for all to see
lest the witness make blindfold wherefrom
anointed he, too, is likewise guilty.

Shun the shade! Forfeit the silk! Forsake yet
the dagger and rending the bloody purse!
Abandon evil, its comforts, forget
aught else lest you reap the tannery’s curse!
Such a world is for scapegraces alone
and its light illumes by human tallow
while the eyes flinch from what is thereby shown,
sheathed in silk alike to Justice, fallow.

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