The Martyr – Poems for January

I cannot wait to be used.
It seems to be inevitable,
That once a man has been
Reduced to soil, that the reduction
Is furthered, a lessening
More akin to change.

A bright menace, fiery
Throat, etc., etc. A hatred
That speaks the words
That the mass simply cannot.
But a man is too much.
A man cannot be contained
Entirely. Unless the man is
Changed. But the best change,
The most manageable,
The most useful change,
Comes when the man
Is sealed into mud.
Now the man can be changed.
The man can be used.
The man and his words can be
Utilized to our benefit.
Without the worrisome fires,
Without the demands,
Without the responsibility
For our own change.

I cannot wait to be used
For that’s when you know
I’ve made it. But i am not
A man. I can be changed
During my lifetime
And become totally useless
As a drone with marble counters,
Stone tile offices. A short-term
Adornment that speaks,
But no, that’s not what is
Wanted. I have to be dead.
Dead, but with a fiery skull
Undampened by the wind,
Or else i am just mass
Softer than mud or soil.

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