Mourning the Marquess of Surrender

Whether memory or myth, the story states that

he was born to starkness under a starless sky,

desolation and darkness his welcome into this

shitty prison, the lowest contender

to the charcoal throne, mouth thick

with ash and aspirated shadow, the black marrow

of ill-mannered ideas. They called him pretender

when he rose as Usher of Abandon, murmured

scorning words, meant as warning, taken as

praise, their anger evidence of his ascent.

He, for us, stripped shame of its control,

tore the teeth from their wrathful mouths,

and gave us back our most powerful weapon:

yes.