You were a victim
of worldliness,
whose only sin
was not suffering
the arbitrary demands
of “civilized society,”
those expressed
in dollars, cents,
and measurements
of productivity.
You spoke
of truth and love,
deftly weaving
the golden thread
of worthy dreams,
whether each belonged
in this world
or another.
Your “naivete,”
of course,
could never
be allowed
to continue,
though it
brought true life,
an impossible feet
for even
the glossiest of dollars.
Come,
the world offers,
suffer as you should,
live each day
for meager, unsatisfying
wages,
for this is your lot,
which at best
may one day become
an acquired taste,
as does salt water
for the shipwrecked sailor.
Rest well,
innocent one,
for the stains
upon your hands
were not borne
of your own desire,
but the formidable strength
of the masses
that eventually crushed
your lonely opposition.
