I tell you that I’m mad for I deny
the nature of the living. A neophyte
to veiled sects of sacrifice, I belie
my savage soul, base reason, for I fight
the instinct to defend. A cordial knight,
instinct with flattery of plated gold,
casts gossamer shadows upon my rational light.
His singsong wraps my soul, and my soul mustn’t fold.

I wander with his words that petrify
my thoughts. His tales transform the truth to fright,
not because the truth sprouts into a lie,
rather, the lie sheds out of truth. Polite
and stiff, I used to be under the might
of my savage soul. Now he coos; ‘Behold,
I warm your coolness and mold it with carnal delight.’
His singsong wraps my soul, and my soul mustn’t fold.

I listen to his speeches that untie
his gnarled ambitions, themes of recondite
substance, yet declared with spurious, awry,
and depthless grasp. He boasts how kind, contrite,
and humble are his deeds, but parasite
he is through verbal chivalry. I sold
my first-born chasteness for mundane and sacred insight.
His singsong wraps my soul, and my soul mustn’t fold.

I am the worm after the storm. I pry
the swelling earth apart and escape the plight
of inundation. Now, in the sun, I lie
exposed, pregnable on the dirty white
concrete. As shadows return to the night,
I descend back into my soul. He told
me he loved me with lies. But with his stories so bright,
his singsong wrapped my soul, and my soul did fold.

I’ve told you this to warn you. Spot the blight
of sacrifice. And as you near the fold
of age and shed youth, preserve truth’s skin so tight
his singsong won’t wrap your soul. Your soul mustn’t fold.

-Tsai