What fits the fingers of my wits…?: A poem 

I couldn’t be bothered… 

if evil wallowed in self-glorification 

over its misbegotten victories 

or treachery took all the corners 

of even the most insulated countries 

I know that corruption is mired in a convenient occlusion 

that provides you with a truth that is a misconception 

Its rabidity has a space all over the sky that you cannot see 

You may even believe that virtue is in ignoring the signs 

that for some may be furniture in the back of their minds 

I could be diagnosed with paralexia 

because treachery takes all the effort to beguile my eye  

But I am not blind 

For I have a selective paranormal vision 

You can see there are too many swords pierced in my back 

but the life in me is still intact 

Futility is my predicament, not my wisdom 

This call of duty, its soul of determination does attract 

And I have no disposition for the creatures of the sea 

that you anglers think will be the angels that will set you free 

Though I have not yet secured my orbits, 

I can still predict that you prospectors are settling for tidbits 

 I may just step in to prove to you how eternity fits 

like rings around the fingers of my wits