Under Aright or Under Serpent

Cross the heart and hope to die,
For thousand thrice has been the lie,
This daily dole,
In soul black now as coal.

Stick a finger in the eye,
And see if whelps do cry,
If you can still see indeed,
Even though your eyes bleed.

What is the point of it all,
If all in once at least is bound to fall?
What then is the full measure,
Surely not solely pleasure?

Videlicet that path is but,
A spinning wheel powerless in rut.
Harming the one who cares the most,
To appease pleasures shrieking ghost.

Oh wretched man that I am,
Naught but a sham,
Broken beyond what men,
Could, like an egg, try to put back together again.

Perhaps lady love could help,
But for this abominable whelp,
There are but three paths available,
To choose between and to will.

The first path is pleasure alone,
To labor and groan,
Spending substance on the insubstantial,
Till in the end life itself fails.

The second is a quick breath,
With only dust behind left.
Honor less, to fight no more,
To walk through death's door.

Or I can choose to fight,
To train under the prince of Aright.
To slay self and slay serpent,
That dragon of old, hell bent.