Vainglorious, I am susceptible and surrounded.
The imprinted idols on my chest and forehead sear deep. I accumulate rewards for little more than trade and tariffs and discounts, my loyalty and fealty, but nothing more, I swear, as if there is anything more of value in my wallet and heart.
Golden calves at a slaughter.
Shank, loin, and bone.
Burnt offerings on a filthy altar, dirty smoke in despair.
If I am susceptible and surrounded, if I am spit, spittle in the face of genesis and the end of it all, of all time, of me, of this tilting universe, so be it.
Then, my final recourse before retiring is to put a torch to a high fire.
And with it, burn all my garments and unholy sacraments.
Careful forever onward what I wear beyond skin and bone.
Unadorned on this journey and the next, and the last.
From this day, reborn.