Mithradates (men in dread clothing)

I deserve, I discover. I am complimented by no other
than the stranger I become, sleeping prophet in the
making of the thousands I ignore, trends I let now
pass me so tomorrow I may claim, through the poverty
I wear, their indignation – met upon the spirit of let give,
make die; cause things to step aside for all you preach
(in argive speech) and bring us change, enact unholy
celebration. Rites in bathes and bearers of a blood
I feel transformed, ancient form of transmutation
that for all my immune skin springs back – marked
from the storm I signal, mercurial with my symbols
and obsessed with the recovery. Red over the body
of the bandage I resent, broken self it represents
yet holds to for the image – of posterity.


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