I syncopate 
into their crazy panting.  
Sum defamation, 
the same as breath derived from 
coffee settled in a fasting stomach, 
invigorates them as I 
waste into a villain’s chair.

My nerves 
roam for a new master 
in the lineup of a Rogues’ Gallery.  

Betrayal is the beacon of hearsay,  
when loyalty screams like 
a scared dreamer 
against my drum-beaten ears.
  
Behind the orchestra 
I become their flat 
shadow of 
no matter, 
a darker mass that 
they have trampled 
in their rush to 
war.  

They will 
occupy me, 
stuff me 
into unwashed jeans 
from their last crusade and 
take me to a pop-concert, 
bragging of my new 
civilization.