Echelon

Boss man then said in our pointless endeavor:

Say just whatever you must!

Take on the guise of a Master of Treasures

And give them no chance to rebuff.

Painfully, we had to agree.

Our sentence had already crushed.

During the death of the Middle Classes,

The hanging tree there was for us.

A small, dirty man, grey, never silver,

Eyes withered out with distrust.

Glasses, bore in-to the side of his face,

And a stomach: stretched buttons to burst.

Head crooked forward

Primordial brow,

Simple, and dumb as a rock.

But wicked as nighttime in wintery aeons,

Seep’ed like corroding rust.

“Some of these Jinglies and

Most of them Arabs,

They’ve got more cash

Than the lot-

So tailor your pitches

And lie every word,

Even, change your name, if you must.”

Stared out the window,

Eyes boiling steam as, the

Night air turned darker than trust.

The skin I was in began tearing and bleeding,

And run, I knew: that’s what I must.

It took every ounce

Of each gram I had in me

To not kill this man where he stood.

I could have, by rights,

Taken my paper knife

And just stabbed it right into his guts.

And watched as the dry cleaned cheap suits

From Manila gave way to a crimson applause.

But instead, held my tongue, there stood in silence

And thought of the task of the Judge.

Sleep! In the knowledge: this stain of a human,

Is not alone in his reward.

Yea, for the money is fleeting and brutal,

The turmoil to come is much more.

A dagger will pierce each ivory sinew

And twist until meeting the light.

The blood spilling down, pools into

A chalice and drink it, he must,

Every night.

His feet will be stood upon rocks made of fire

And hairs from his head shall be plucked.

His ruddy cheeks of wine and fine dining

Will be from hence sliced off and cut.

And there at the end, no salvation lurking

We give him one chance to repent.

But whence there he does, so then we will laugh,