we are the sons of beardless Chameleon
we are the dog who caught the game
but are made to take comfort in the bones
beneath the master's table
we are the wood splintered by iron axes
we are the door ravaged by steel arms
and torn apart so they may take the prize
we are the deflowered virgin, raped
by sailors from the Seven Seas
and draped in shrouds of soft silken threads
we are the abandoned princess
waiting for the man who touched her soul
to return to free her heart in the stone
we are the vast and endless pasture
caught between delicate pale white fingers
that pluck and tiptoe away the smile on our faces
and now we shed tears, littered fragments
of our broken dreams in every allay of the world
while they rub our chests with the fragrance of death
the tiny chameleon says,
he has strength enough to spit
into the face of King Cobra
but he chose one step at a time
one day when the King calls
for the silent majority he'll be there