Contour

Torn between the right and just
both go left toward endless dust
the abominating shrill of a selfless cry
breaks vanity's clock in a heinous devise.

Swept up stupidly in
those wings of loose feathers
tattering against the gale
my journeyman's caw.

somewhere, the tolling calls
far echoing through peaks and pits
the crevice of my mind exalts
writhing in subtle fear.

I kiss the dirt fervently
discharge myself in neutrality
and silence my thoughts
as I return to dust.

But what of the right and just?
what of pride and lust?
merely concepts on the doorsteps
of tragedy's white lie.