Alchemisland

Nobody will cry when I go, Lot’s wife 

Neither column-raising triumph nor column-chasing crime trial traces my time as pilot of helots

Step stymies on threshold

Arrogance of me expecting clapping zealots hot on heels

I never go without looking overshoulder

Alm bowls filled bonuses princely, my quill’s trilling instilled validity

People who said I meant to them what they meant to me have sent me no messages of thanks

Closing ranks quicker than floodwaters filling burst banks

I am thankless Sisyphus, grit alone sustains me, bailed fists

Tireless wrists too long tied

I scythe-loathing one thousand times died.