Oath

If virtue is the mark of my honour,

I must bear every degradation upon my soul

with strength; I must fold up my weak limbs

and make a stone of my skin.

The water will wash over my back.

Stones will crumble -

the old ways are nothing but dust swept away on a breeze

or part of a beach somewhere, 

under the feet of teens on amphetamines -

irrelevant: just like I am to all of them now

with my body wasting away

and my centre being stripped down 

as I gradually cease to understand why I am always the one left naked.