There is a certain measure
Which I cannot record—
Or place into volume.
Truthfully, an isometric tension
Which broods somewhere inside.
I fear it may be a consequence
Of wrath’s unborn. A superstitious
Intrigue; such as an assassin
Who murdered his beloved God,
And inherited an Earth unready
For the gait of his very pride.
I gaze at him in wonder
And learn of his virtue,
And of his many follies.
Then I must prepare myself
For his downfall.
And I cannot bear the responsibility.
For all the beauty in this world is true—
To my reality—if defined in this way
I cannot be.