Once a man faces his own back street mask
Folded thrice, ironed (and hung with care to
Dry upon a cold steel stair out of reach),
Enduring the lone struggle of a task
Asked of the self, to be, and not to do
Degrading actions of those who teach
Endlessly the meanings of compassion
Needless of victims, then can he become
Devoid of this assembled thoughtlessness.
A man sits in a dead-end alley. Some
Lie has been spread, that he is dead. Though less
Lies are said:
Ernst contemplated the brick in the wall;
Yet insisted it didn’t exist at all.