Compromise, I know you well.
I know your notfrommyworld smell.
Repulsively and crassly oversweet.
A hyperglycaemic diabetic treat.
A desperately unctuous treacly magnet
filling up my nostrils with
the yellow stench of surrender.
You are a pair of well-worn comfortably
woolly slippers for my feet
which, fortunately, never seem to fit.
A squidgy beckon cushion for a seat
on which my ass would never want to sit.
Compromise, I’ve heard your diplomatic voice,
appeasing, seeking to be pleasing to the mob.
I’ve met your ceaseless colleague, Mediocrity
(your ugly, blind and deafsome pallid twin),
together doing business indiscriminately
trading through your darkful dialogue.
Compromise, I know your smugly face.
It smirked in my direction once
when I could not another morning take
and, poised like jelly on a clifftop
ready to launch my broken self into the space below,
you slid your lardly promises by my side,
declaring how my bank account would grow.
I never gave in to your strokes.
I’d rather die than feel your scaly hands caressing me,
enveloping my artwork in your silver-plated lie.
I climbed down from that cliff, my self intact;
somehow protected even more —
no longer sidetracked by your toothy grin.
For then I grasped your modus operandi
(all the fawning slime with which you lure):
Exploiting insecurity and weakness
you target people cruelly from within.
Compromise, I’m here to give you warning:
I’ve put a contract out. It’s now in force.
I call on every soul that I can bring
to hunt you and destroy without remorse.
Your sway upon this world will soon be gone;
as old gives way to new and dark to light.
Then you and all your weakly hangers-on
will cease to be the human parasite.
However, I’m aware that you won’t go
without a fight. On earth you think you’re king.
There’s something that you really need to know:
Here comes the end of all to which you cling.
For compromise is just an old-world lie
designed to render wings so they can’t fly.
© Alan Morrison, 2014