I Am My Own

You once asked of me, dearest Elder, to make you proud. I have tried my best, I have borne your crest and gave your withering old crown throughout the world renown. But as the years go by, the sharper grew my eye, and it spotted, through glasses dotted, a total surrender - typical for your gender. I saw deep in your soul, in that putrid, lurid hole, how Pride and Integrity, former models of Solemnity, bowed dutifully to the laughing deceit. I had thought in my earliest youth how such a pillar of truth as you I shall never meet. Now I see that the true model I have lies in me, where my Honesty and my rightful Vanity still act the bridges to my cells, so I do not squeak, as you, at the hinges. You have grown old, teacher, I understand, but 'tis no excuse for your backbone to turn to sand. I remember still, while stealing a glance, I saw the fox of corruption prance upon your greying skin.
What I recalled to be of marble, I found had started to crumble, and saw the thorned tentacles engulf what the crude iron manacles could not. In shackles were you, awaiting your sentence, when I virtuously came to denounce your false repentance.
It may seem odd, how I spotted the marsh; I had spoken to a God, who told me it stuck so harsh to your bones and your veins, your fibres and brains. Intellect-deep in mud, with muck instead of blood, you are condemned to a barren eternity.
The true believers will now sing: "What, no redemption for the Christian thing?" Seeking an answer in the old, 'tis the new that will his judgement unfold: "None, for his web of lie is like a ring."
You are now too old, too poor, to rotten to be saved; your tongue ought to be shaved - it bears white, thick hairs of ugly song. Your brain ought to be filtered, smashed into a pulp, then poured back into your skull, though I doubt it there belonged. The fragile clay of your frame should be melted and scuplted anew, for only rebirth could give your heart another hue. Yet to all these changes - monstruous, I'll admit - we cannot an old, learned bodice submit. Your spirit - the wreck that's left, I mean - will crack and break, never remembered, never seen.
So, you see, 'tis best to leave thee in thy rude, ungraceful form, for if we dissolve your trace upon this land, you will have not existed. And, after all, 'tis better to exist in infamy than to surrender to anonimity.

Forgive me, thus, for not taking you at your word. Your false pride shall end up a broken sword - I remember naught but my own ideals, what I go through are my own ordeals. Your name shan't be written under any knitted mitten I have touched. I fear, you see, that your long, green finger will prick even me. Forgiveness for my weakness I do beg of thee.

My teacher, you should know I hate you not, I only hate that you have not fought. The devils of your possession, who rule your being in progression, were not hard to repel - you had to know Morality's simple spell. Yet, the past is in the past, though the repecrussions of your actions hurt and last. For the future, the empty forever, I'll try your wounds to suture with something clever. But, as wit seemingly escapes me, I can only resort to what you next see: rudimentary words for you, from me. Though I know what follows will be night, do pray that the Gods by some miracle grant you true sight. May your reckless, shameful sins be light, and may you never forget my right to say "nay" when you try to model my clay.