License to Kill

February 08, 2017

The wages of sin is death”

I gifted freedom to you and you tortured Him

Extracted all His greedy sweetmeat marrowbone

Devoured; with mouths overrunning, ooze like honeycomb

Exacted, wreaked; replete wholesale commodity.

That life is to the young is no controversy

And eld should shrink back, give due place, it is so,

But yet should callow youth taste every novelty?

Is it not the place of freedom to forego?

By rightful privilege to stand upon restraint

Measure and weigh thuswise, that judgements stood

In the marketplace, ask no-one harsh distraint;

Sentence creating accretion on one’s thought

Of a signal grounding ballast, that which ought

As travail navigates exigencies,

So like true north in compass allows explorers find

Commanding theses

The countervailing nature of indulgences

The fundamental feature of effulgences

Shed too much light on early masquerades

Accummulating capital over years

By a loan of easy ears to beartrap abuscades

Of grand mischance and sorry misbehaves

A garden gifts you what you sow; enhances

Your views, or fills a larder, cultivates

Your sympathies, commending roots with nature;

That produce of your labour stands approved provender

Of graciousness, attribute due a union

Which sanctions simple soil as sacrosanct

A freedom place where claims work, interact,

Upon your faith, your interstitial clout

Between full certainty and roving double doubt

The land stands up for grabs most often hereabouts

One’s love commitment that is what you ‘ve planted

By love’s commandments is your offering granted

Invest too much too young in burntout contrabands

Granites for jewels, trash adamantine Samarkands

Lead out with weakest deuces in your hand of kings

Welcome in discontentments mayhems majoring

Welcome those kindly ones whose room you onetime slighted

When once you thought you saw but nonetheless you were unsighted

Heydays in which your dreams were all perfumed; delighted

To come again now, haunt you.

In the beginning was the Word; don’t doubt it

And your beginning, it was absurd, without It

As are our ends; just Vladimirs, Estragons,

Philistine conjurers’ technologic Dagons

Unredeemed, unregenerate, sopporific pagans

Boil in your freedoms; revel in your stoups

The follies we escape our latter days recoup

Service, contrition, prayerful gratitude

(Maybe I’m sounding here a platitude?)

These are the valours, the amplitudes, of life

These are the colours on which I give my life.