I do not rush. I do not shout or strain.
I count the years like dust upon the pane.
Truth walks unarmed beneath the open sky.
I match its step and let the seasons die.
I learn its pulse. I learn the hour it rests.
I wait until the waiting itself is blessed.
No tremor in the hand that holds the knife.
I am the long, cold patience of a life.
First I convert. A whisper dressed as care.
A milder word they breathe as if it were air.
They practice the almost. They nod and they kneel.
The falsehood fits so well they call it real.
They feed it to the children. They swear by its name.
They never notice how the world went lame.
The cut is so shallow they thank me in prayer.
I sheath the blade and leave it waiting there.
Then I pervert. I let the wound be seen.
They toast the breaking. They crown the obscene.
They dance on the standard they once held high.
They hang what was holy and cheer as it dies.
Violation is fashion. Betrayal is art.
They wear the new colors and tear the old heart.
Still I am silent. Still I do not run.
The hour is coming. The work is not done.
At last I invert what the living once knew.
The light is the sickness. The darkness is due.
Good wears the shackles. Evil takes the throne.
They kiss the cold hand and they call it their own.
Right is made wrong and the wrong is made law.
They burn the last page of the truth that they saw.
The inversion is finished. The order is new.
I step from the shadow and walk in the view.
And look how the morning has learned to agree.
A thin golden ray on the wreckage of we.
The roses are blooming. The garden looks well.
No one remembers the moment they fell.
It is gloomily rosy. It is eerily kind.
The last honest thought has gone out of the mind.
I stand in the sunlight I never once feared.
The killer of truth, and the world I have cleared.
I believed I was right. I believe it still.
I waited and weighed, till I outlived their will.
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