Color me the black
of soil fed with death,
color me the red
of veins newly let,
color me without
shadows cast by light -
for I am the monster of forgiveness,
the demon of delight.

Even the dogs shy from me.

To them I must smell
of forgetfulness,
and as all dogs know,
to be forgotten
means to become cold.

But look how their masters welcome me,
with fatted calf and incense,
so enamored are they
with their gifts
that none, save the youngest,
notice the birds have ceased to sing.

The Elders take me by the hand,
leading me to their place of honor,
and seat me on a throne
made of children bound together.

They think I am a God,
and the only way they know
to show their love for a God
is by trying to prove
that nothing in life matters.
So they bring me wild gifts
that will grant them starvation
and give to me their children
to make of their futures
broken things.
All so they can gain from me
the forgetfulness of pain and deceit.

Even the dogs shy from me,
yet their masters cannot distinguish
a monster from a king.

Under my tunic
I wear a circlet of tongues,
trophies I claim
when this seemingly
unending
parade of gifts is done.
For what use this means for speech,
when you have given up your right
in the name of peace?
 
simple, simple people
who think all acts of love feel good.
 
It is this hidden rot
that the dogs can smell,
and even they won't risk
such spoiled food.

When the gifts are done,
and distress is gone,
the people whirl before my throne,
stopping only to open their
mouths and let me lean down
and bite off their tongues.
How drunk they get on a demon's kiss,
thinking they are in the ecstasy
of being blessed.

And the night wears on.
They forget me,
gods are only remembered
as long as their need.
Save the youngest,
who leads the oldest by hand.
I see how the child blocks
the blind step
when the dance
threatens to interfere,
then finds a new path
and continues to draw near.
 
Such a faithful "dog" for a man
near death to have.

The old
can no longer pretend,
they see me for what I really am,
and at last
are aware of what they have done.
Blind though he may be,
his gaze penetrates
the circus around me.
 
'Give me back what you have damned!'
     he cries,
'For I will not die a lesser man.'
     and he reaches out to touch my face.

I close my eyes
as his skin finds mine.
First the tips
then with dawning wonder,
he cradles my head
and weeping,
all anger asunder,
he drops his touch
and stumbles from the room,
dragging youth after.

Had I a voice to call to him
that had not died from mis-use,
I would have kept silent
and cried tears of my own,
letting our grief mingle on the ground.

For at least he to dust
and forgetfulness can return,
while I am ever doomed
to remain on man's throne.
Powerless to turn them away
and cry warning
as they push on me
their baskets of offerings.

I am never more alone
then in the midst of this revelry,
this celebration of mankind
that is based in fallacy.

Before this makeshift throne,
they come each and their own
to lay out their tales of woe.
With a nod,
with easy grace,
I give them their choice -
suffer your decision
and keep your voice;
or bliss
and the loss of your tongue.
 
Forgive or forgiven,
you must be sure of what is done,
and if they seek me
for lack of will to decide,
then my attention they will receive
before the evening draws nigh.

My grace has the beauty
of the bitter asp.
 
They know this,
but take care to remain
carefully blanketed in
chosen ignorance,
unaware of the energy they expend
in fencing cemeteries in their souls
large enough to hold their morals.
 
Do monsters rise from the dust?
Or do we make them
with our hands?
Was I always as such?
Or was I once a man?

Why don't you ask my children,
if you can get the dogs
to stop worrying their bones,
perhaps they can tell you
whether I have finally learned,
what must be forgiven
and what must be left alone.

Bless the gods who saw fit
to so deform me
that my lack of judgment
is written on my face.
 
And even though I gave away
my right to everything,
they granted me eternity
to witness the greatest
failure of the human race.
 
And I live off their pain,
no longer mortal
but monstrous in my claims.
 
But, I am fair.
At the last moment,
a minor god intervened
and gave me fairness
along with my poisonous needs.
I am fair because I offer them all
the choice to live as gods,
or accept my gifts
and be devoured all.
 
No one seems to care,
that the gifts of the gods
are not lightly shared
and no one questions
when I show up at their door
with my moment of discomfort
and gifts abundant.
They celebrate my arrival
rather than face the struggle
to reveal what of the gods
lives within,
and before long it withers and dries
never to bloom again.

Rare is the village
that with torch and mob
chases me from the gate.
In these places,
somehow they were shown,
that forgiveness is not given,
but grown.
It is not something they can
barter and trade,
it makes no man good
and brings not a magic peace.
It is not spoken with simple words
but wrung from grief,
and is not meant for every thing.
 
I can usually smell
these villages from afar,
for they reek of love and calmness
and faith.
Their voices are almost always
raised in song
for not one of them
has given up their tongue,
thinking it made them a better man,
and monsters,
are not tolerated there.

Monsters are not wanted,
and so I turn away,
trying to resist the urge
to look just once
on what life could have been.
I gave up my right to that,
and while the gods
may have forgiven me
there is no way of going back.

Instead,
I go on,

and will play my role of temptation
until mankind's time is done,
and then we shall all stand together
and answer
for what we allowed in our lives,
and what we learned
of the need to reconcile.

Color me the black
of soil fed with death,

color me the red
of veins newly let -
but learn to be wary should I appear,.
miss not
when the birds have stop singing
and the gathering
absence of light,
for I am
the monster of forgiveness,
and the demon
of delight