The False Prophet

With damp cotton loosely lipped,

the rotten must, like raked up leaves,

combusts swift as he breathes.


Ethereal mint punches deep into his throat

and descends with haste into its grave

where most lifts but some chokes and stays.


Mercy! Mercy! It soothes his soul.

Miracle working until the end.

Then black rust and poison mold, the price of my sin.