My New Crown

What fake unfortune have I to claim?
Our world of gray and decay to burst
with color from a well-angled glance or
to droop like a serum from an ascetics unfed
maw.  Neither caw nor home give me roost
nor destination, a war where comfort fails
and all things are pained, torn, familied in snow,
the cuts refusing in cold to shrink and sow,
each bleat of minor storm my chest enthralls
and gives to colors and faith what my head now holds.
Sacrosanct against that scourge of distance,
closed doors and denied dreamers of the poor,
where once ambition sits now guilt proudly fits,
to eternally pain myself myself to reign,
virtue they it so call but rather a weakling
crow with tattered wings of gray matter kings.


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