The great hunter adorned in cherry cloak,
now retired from a beguiled persona
Humanity shown on his breastplate as if time were not aware,
of the fleeting density of his own life
Yet man is beguiled himself if he were to believe,
his lot in life was more than what lay beneath manipulated metal
OH, the lavishing few who had built their house on a pew,
orchestrated sequins of petty dainties called self-expression
The town of drunkards somehow more chivalrous than he,
for what does a man sacrifice to ignore his mortality if not dignity
TUMULTUARY 
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