Redemption's psalms are only sung
Over sighs of relief,
And virtue taunts from the folds
Of good fortune.
Hence, the fine fellow
Both bores and disgusts,
Because his salvation
Was no work of art,
No push toward freedom,
No dance across coals.
Spoiled on habit and inheritance,
With homes and thoughts
Rarefied right out of reality,
The lucky curse the honest.
Rolled from the womb
Like a gambit of the gods,
We pray to saints for lucky breaks
And then paste them on our resumés.
We are not our own,
And yet perceptions sing siren-truths,
And we swear we have a say.
I say
Prove it.
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