Was my tongue, my words, and inspired
Personal vanity, for which I am now
Being punished; I am not made
To resemble frail, virgin Philomela, no; but I am a virgin
Of my own making, my tongue
Fat, sausage-like, lolling uneasily
I make a fool of myself with every flip of the card
Spinning dizzy, my mystique gone
I pine for it with words
Attempts thrown at you, Faceless Priest
And your response (or lack thereof) drowns me
In the tears of directionless anger.
You've become stone, from man to myth,
From book to Bible; you've stolen my
Stoical limelight
And skewer me wordlessly
In a fashion you borrowed from me and my teachings
Taking a withered leaf from my book.

My feathered breast
Is splashed red from my tears
Crimson pearls leaked by my eyes.

That silent remorselessness
That tilt of your head---
That was mine.

I want to make you sheepish again
In awe of my majesty
(Something I attain by corrupting
human laws and becoming a demigod).
This paper on which I shed
Hot words is yours.

In the instant you
Relieve yourself of me
I set aside my anger, my pity,
For chafing resolve:
It was my bird,
I want it back.

And from the perch of my
Secret revenge, I shall make you're my enemy yet again
Show you true majesty
In the way I speak volumes
With a shorn tongue.