In love with the lies he’s told himself,
he dances with himself, a devil dressed in white,
self-crowned Regent of Innocence. Laced
with pillowed luxury, his home provides comfort,
convinces him all the more that he’s
Lord of Loving-kindness and King of What Ought Be,
self-appointed judge and soul jury.

She grieves his misguided judgment, fat,
ringed finger that cast her beyond Realm of Blessing.
She mourns conditioned environment,
hollow House of Grand Illusions where he chooses
to make his bed of linens fine. There,
he sees not folly of his ways, nor has any 
use for love or equality.

Many bow before smooth-tongued serpent,
imagining him as Prince of Enlightenment;
for his promises are grand and he’s
brought prosperity to land where willing servants
do as he says God says. They ask no
questions, make few demands, support his stated quest
of loyal devotion to Holy One.

Exhilarating, his revelry!
Sweet addiction: succulent stupor of success.
Just Reward, he claims, for majestic
magnanimity, vast care for God’s Kingdom Work.
The pleasures of his Palace Posh are
secondary, of course; nevertheless, he soaks
it up, awash in resultant buzz.

“Say, see Harlot stoop in squalor there –
has she no respect for our Lord’s authority?”
He mocks colossal misdirection,
sins he presumes there, invented to stave off fear
that Woman of the Streets dare approach
godly King of Cleanliness. He turns, bids them come,
drink deep of the serum he calls Truth.