Shibboleth

This is a shibboleth,
A watchword and a hit list.
Lysias with a fat-lipped lisp
Could sing and sing,
But could never thay thith.
So cue the music,
Wake the organ’s wail;
Something in a minor key
That will hopefully
Augment this hopeless tale.

I shackled and shut them away,
Tied their limbs to strings and
Danced them from the causeway;
It’s hard to accept this vexing thing
That where once were strings
Are pairs of wings and no one
Lives inside your head;
You live alone in catacombs
Where groan those you’ve known
In yesteryear, grey and static,
And thusly dead.

This is a shibboleth,
A curse word on a wish list.
Lovers with an open-lipped kiss
Could cover themselves in hot breaths
Just to miss this.
And in their tryst’s molten cauldron
Wherein shackles, forged, are begotten.
In your mind I know I’ve died,
And in that coldest catacomb
I cannot help but be forgotten.
Say it right, and I’ll
Inscribe it above your tomb,
A shibboleth:
Victimhood does not absolve us of our sins.
Except the words are wrong,
I wipe it clean and begin again.