There is no cage for the likes of me,
The likes of you have tried fervently
To twist and force, coerce, contort
Me into naught but weak-willed lackey.
Your misstep lies in plots connived,
In miscalculations quietly contrived,
Your blade stopped at its attempted burial;
My spine, an assembly of abandoned knives.
You split my tongue to make me the serpent,
To force my bending, my words’ relenting,
But I twice-fold speak my truth, ruthlessly;
There is nothing for which I am repentant.
Thus you turn to self-idolatry,
Thinking yourself wise, fair, kingly,
So blinded by your own veneer,
You can no longer see,
You are no such royalty, my dear,
You are naught but my kindling
© 2022 Damon Barret Roe, All Rights Reserved.