A finely calibrated, 

properly consecrated 

distaste for courage, 

in the absence 

of a crown, 

thorned, or of renown, 

for the facility

with which excuses

can be spewed, 

leaves little room

for that uneasy

clarity to bloom, 

the one that illumines

and discerns what

we used to call

the right thing, 

decency, if you will, 

but now, as if

ensnared by Circe, 

we'll worship instead

at the feet of expediency, 

as we clip the wings

of our forsaken, 

timid, better angels...