Sit in that chair and be good,
read those books with blank pages
and do not create a disturbance
or risk being locked up in the cages
by your hidden enemies and fears.
The water pressure is weak,
the milk has gone and been sour,
and the faucet won't stop the leak
but that is lost in my broken palace.
The rose are dead and cracked
and lay near, sitting in muddy water
with its acts, its facts, and its abstract
tears that fall when it rains in July.
Don't think about your fleeting peace
or the indecent exposure caused
by the release or the priests.
Don't talk about the tales or myths,
just sit in that chair and don't whine,
about your past and my future when
all life is cheap, especially mine.