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.