Shall I pull stitches from torn
flesh,
to prove you my pain?
Or would that only evidence my
mortal status
before your concrete, community
throne?
You have stolen and silenced a
voice;
taken possession which you can never
be worthy.
You of lofty pose,
pray you seek to fly over the
balance of scales
may you climb higher and higher.
For I shall sharpen my saber,
creep close to the ground,
and cut down your beanstalk.
Within the mists where you find
refuge
I shall crouch and bide my time
for when you least expect it
I will be there to remind you
of what you are beholden.
