Upon a Wooden Cross

That society has nailed me up Upon Revenge’s door I’ve been the rug That greets most fervidly, but never is allowed to enter Engrained with soot that foot hath drug Their soles were always center And I, the outskirts, two-dimensional pup I, the martyr on the cross who dies when no one sees A victim of maturity, I weep like the melting willow Holes in soles, attention spanned longer, yet thinner A drifting mind makes even the tiger mellow Satan, too, turns on the most loquacious sinner A hole-y Algernon among oaken trees