Tar Wings

Tar wings folded round my aching shoulders,
on a throne of lead, impersonal, imposing,
I entertain the sleep that follows ale and misery
and fold my arms in silent sanction, dozing.
And, lifting from my dreams of better evenings
my brain too numb to care for leading men,
and lifting from my seat above the public,
I shake loose from my wings the clinging sin.

They call for me, these ripples in the cobble.
They gnash their teeth and crave the noble blood.
I take my robe of stone from a man with eyes of bone
and fling it o'er myself and greet the flood.
They curse me and they throw their spears of anger
for the injustices that I have so designed.
I search for words made holy by the knowing tongue;
those words that so well hide the hollow mind.

So, baring falsehoods to them, there below me,
I roll the taffy lies through shining teeth.
I thick them with these things, deception of my wings;
and satisfy the furied men beneath.
Then carefully retreat into my lonely room
and pull my stinking cloak from my wings of blood and tar
and lay my naked shameful in the seat of heavy death
and dream of freer evenings where you are.