Paintings dispersed
By a hand
As the Age of Messiahs passes,
The hero in theory
Always a cad
In fact.
The good can only be bad,
Much as it pains
The martyr inside
Who knows the outside world
Can't help
To surmise.
All circles fit into the circle.
All colors metamorphize to one.
The slogans and the flags,
False maps.
The stone floor contains
Many faces
Not even trapped.
