No one gets to go there,
these walls are not scalable, not saleable.
You can’t claw your way in,
you cannot pierce past this skin,
this pilgrimage is reserved for the hermit,
for the inwardly inward, for the withdrawn & within.
I’ve seen your eyes pan,
I’ve seen your desperation for man,
and this whole time you missed the essence of his span.
Wretched carnality, devoid of spirituality,
you’d eat my flesh and spit it out without so much a thought.
I’ve squandered women like you and all their triviality,
I’ve toyed with their insincerity like a sport.
The stench of the ulterior motived precedes them,
their actions are seen in advance by men, real men.
Foresight and experienced in the sinisterism of hucksters,
gypsy travellers settling on whatever soul lines their sack,
they’ll sell you a love story and break your back.
Burning at the stake is too swift and merciful a punishment,
it’s far easier to immortalise them with rhyme and meter,
and leave them to their ways in banishment.
They ask, “Where does it hurt?”
The reply comes gushing, “the place you couldn’t reach”.