Intolerant Dead
These dead men never render Faust or fade
For only white worm maggots burrow bold.
Intolerant no more of colored shade
While wrapped in raiment silk of amber gold.
No mountain of Olympus are these dead,
They crave no more the master masks once worn;
For they have found forever's fertile bed,
Oblivion, and feel no more the scorn.
A cradled black sarcophagus dug deep
Hold alabaster bones eternally -
No angel trumpets blown for their long sleep
Will raise decay up unexpectedly.
Their sins are made immaculate in death;
Offended men still taste the bigot's breath.
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