When nought but honour matters anymore
a crazy sense of gleedom grips the soul
and flings all hope with gladness to the floor
(for worthless dreams can’t make what’s broken whole).
When nought but virtue thrills you with its shine
and there’s no leechlike selfdom left to pet,
you’ll find you’ve reached a mutant borderline.
All feigning’s then revealed in silhouette.
I laugh absurdly now as if possessed
by some infernal foolish worn-out joke;
for nothing here can pass the litmus test
[designed]; so falsehood’s darkness I’ll uncloak.
I hesitate to let you see this scrawl
for none have bathed within my waterfall.
© Alan Morrison, 2017