Elephant on Wheels

After an era,
One fine day I at last
Composed the true milk
Of my greatest,
Most imposing toil,
The one final yarn,
Short the uproar,
Short the activist,
Short the insignias,
Short the anarchy of ambition,
And the tremors of self,
While my bowel moved.
What remained of the empire worshiped me then,
And every other such noise
I penned summers prior,
At my solemnest,
Became but solid gold.
And all my heavy faults
Since and before
Were the firings
Of a god turning in sleep.
And I was at best sickened.

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