The less I sin, the more I'm hated;
but medicine has medicated
me enough to volunteer to breathe.
The rest of men have ruminated,
but truly they've just meditated
in the laze of all they never could perceive.
The truth's
it seems the more I live
the less I plainly see
that youth
and dreams and sedatives
were all the same to me.
This culture's in me fervently,
dying so deservingly
while the slave in me is servantly
trying to look its master in the eye.
The vultures so impatiently
circle me and only me,
wondering and wondering
why I never die.
And so do I.
I don't know why I breathe.
I don't know why I smile like the child
still buried deep in me.
I don't fly;
but, like vultures, I have needs.
The truth's
it seems the more I live
the less I plainly see.