Purity and Equity are Painters

We're painitng towers.

The magistrate hired us to paint the towers.

They have spent long enough encrusting the towers

With emeralds and diamonds to take the responsibility

Of purity---as the driven snow.

Ivory would not suffice, likely as all things.

Only after they've been painted with blood

Can they be cleaned. It is quite obvious

That nobody would actually be happy with untainted things.

What is there left then to prove that it is clean now?

Where have white lies gone?

Have they passed between our fingers?

We as a general body are not holding the world close enough to touch

And we are distracted by the action of loss of touch.

Isn't it fascinating? Isn't it beautiful? Isn't it such a luminating sight?

Sanity is rare if it is to be found, but insanity is what we devote our lives to classifying.

I am not easily worried by urgent matters.

I would like to unshy. I would like to split into sections sanity.

Then perhaps I could ration it out among us.

The problem of division isn't such a problem any longer.

I don't mind a bit of math. It's a neat reward for equity.

This poem is about: 
Me

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