Truth is the iris, Burning brightly from love's crown, Desiring to fall the kingdoms down Upon feet, stepped in the virgin snow, Deep in the mire, With hearts lit by fire. You have veins, You have vanity Kissed by a mouth, ripe as fruit, Kissed by another set Of amorous lips. Why fall, To catch it all? You enter the world Desiring the crawl Of men, in your call. You bleed Color, for the world to see. You raise banners, among the crowd Blinding others, by the sun Of your seditious blaze. Why won't you fall in your own puddles? You are the kind monarch, With the crown upon your temple, still Aligned with the bonds of inevitable scorn That points to your empty forehead, Possessing still no third eye To see yourself, when you die.