O What a Shame



5 tears in the 5
keyholes of the heart.
Wheat that grew
from the crown
of thorns.  This is
the blood of my
brow, for that of
my heart is poison;
arrows from crenellations;
the eels that swim up the spine
of the caduceus.
Black cloud white cloud
rain down rays on
merchant & clergyman alike.
To each ordained
estate, the sacred duty
of struggling toward the
dungheap's top. A sheaf of wheat
becomes an arrow.  The soil
more fertile, its flowering
most foul.

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