I hear it spoken, among hush-ed whispers,
Murder and lie cloaked and tempered,
To the air that surrounds,
Where truth is but relative, for its existence nigh untrue,
For whence there breeds only falsehood to substitute truth,
There can be no such thing of that noble root.

A rose by any other name, would still smell as sweet,
But the caustic sting of venom and bile,
Named rose by any unfortunate soul,
Is bound to misery, and loss and all ill they greet.
For to live in the shell of beauty and trust,
Bound haphazardly unto the carcass of desecration,
Is bound to crumple without duress, and void of impunity.

But there are those few, and yet those many,
Those that live around this carcass,
But yet just beyond its fullest stench,
Those hold in their hearts, the virtue of a taint,
Not so spoil-ed to have wrung them dry,
Of compassion, and faith, and honor and humanity.

Avarice abounds, uncag-ed, unleashed,
Masked in her perpetual guise of trust,
Nestled among those hearts’ deepest, primal crevices.
Absolution relieved of its long-worn duty,
Smuggled and twisted into tempestuous visage,
Marred by contempt, and wrought into grudge.

Such lofty cages they hold themselves in,
The thrill of youth, spent against steel.
Bound unto themselves, residence among vice,
Those once that had them trusted
Now trust itself twisted.

Shame not, ye that hear these words,
Nor fear such fate, as great misery to be this age’s curse,
As a matter of course, wisdom bears poultice.
A phase of passing, ‘tis named, pav-ed ground beyond the worst.