Bad dreams #82

I was hung,
By the thumbs.
It seemed to go on for hours
Before I was undone.
Festival Halls of people sung
And clapped raptures;
Roars of approval rang peals and rounds
Round rafters.
I was stunned.

Reasoned begging,
Appeals to Heaven –
Nothing worked.
Nor did my threatening.
I’ve been, at times, a weirdo and a cretin;
An aperitif of psychopath,
A carafe of the just plain daft:
Salted round the lip with the tang of the bad example I’m setting.

I cut out all my guilts
And made a quilt:
Pass it down generations,
Hand-to-hand, bequeathed, willed,
Strips whipped from me, peeled, patched;
Gone, scrapped.
A hackneyed, ragged residue that endures,
Worse than a curse.
That’s how dynasties get built.

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