Not From my Bedside

Will your morose words defeat their reason.
Lying naked with no thoughts of my own,
no more body than the mound of sheets
cushioning my weary soul;
enables not you to question my motives.
Your money is only a breath I need.
My world may hang from trees,
far beyond your crops of blinded watchmen
but not from my bedside
will you eyes strip me of my familiar slip.
Has my fate swelled your hollow eyes?
Do my hands reflect the ranks you criticize?
I have not been born marked good sir,
and not from my bedside
will I idealize
the ones who are outside the den I lurk in.
In the end I will be the one
Who come back to claim the wicked ones
Tomorrow.