For believing.

The primogeniture  
enjoyed hectoring Beauty    
through fields,  
over the rotting planks that spared    
her saturated flippers, beneath bridges.  
   
The primogeniture  
possessed an iced disposition  
and his mind was incongruous with  
our world,  
he was stygian and birthing sin.  
   
Composure bled from his trenchant organ,  
delight washing his shell  
with proud peccant.  
The comely angel laughed at his Potemkin village,  
at his xenophobia towards love.    
   
Her appearance was as durable as her mind,  
though her mind was malleable and light.  
The primogeniture was  
a gimcrack, a follower  
to his ostentation. Tenebrous as his heart.  
   
The primogeniture wept her from his flesh when she was immured by
mortality. He eschewed    
his entourage and genuflected before the stone    
and knew he was a 'mountebank'  
for she had declared him so while celebrating his complexity in the belly of straw and hay.