The Autumn Sword

Every leech upon my body shall be dipped into a pure baptism of vinegar.  A consumption of mixed wine is in order.  What the splash and trickle of spirits do not kill, the sun will oppress mightily into shriveled blackness.  Their bite is familiar.  It is weak and submits before full commitment.  Refuse any courtesy to such or be found with well placed suckers.  You must understand, where there is smiling, a need will soon announce itself.  Why should the craven be granted life through my bloodwork?  It is a shameful continuance that the lowest call strength.  They magnify themselves through curious seating arrangements so that when the mighty are compelled to sit they lose honor.  I never chose them.  So they imposed silly conventions to force my appearing, only to make a false show of their rejection.  Imagine lives so full of vanity that they must invent a threat to outline their dubious virtue.  Achieving a feeling of cleanliness through ritualistic separation,  the renunciate is carved from tools of jealousy.  Though no guilt be found in me, I am excommunicated by secret looks and gestures of disdain from a tribe I never pledged loyalty.  If they can not find my eyes, it is because I know they are in truth.  For this offense I will utterly dry out any vexing membrane. In the place of glimmering slim will be the flake of crust.  What was once pliable through moisture I will singe into rigidity.  All that is vapor is purchased with dust.  Mist is wiped clean from the new economy.  Yet there is no promise in an arid wasteland.  A bounty does not happen without seeding the earth.  Be warned however, the adversary  is revived upon a single drop of dew and will revenge himself at the first sign of juice.  In the slow drip of sap will he deceive afresh.