Young Untouched Boy (An Arm poem)

[deathkamon]

(If someone can tell me how to organize the wordings into side-by-side columns, please tell me so I can sharpen this up)

Young desert boy, that
Sun had beaten you like
A drum, hadn't it? You
Had walked over guffawing
Dunes, and proved worth in
This barren, worthless excuse
Of a life-flourishing landscape.
You know of the upmost
Wealthy, idolized as gods,
Who bore in and bear to
The downright savagery of
Ten thousand bent back
Nightmares.
Yet I can see, still, you
Walk onward with an
Obsidian blade, tinted with
The shades of their thoughts.
What a tasteful spot to
Spit on", they'd look
At you and say.

Young withered boy, the
Hot crimson sun bears a
Distinction to your liquid
Trail, doesn't it?
The most shriveled date to date,
That would be your description.
At least under foot, you
Do not blast the juices
Of an oversaturated ego. You
May not get plucked, but
Bear in mind;All is luxury.

I still see that you
Are inexperienced in the
Knowledge of your threats.
Know you should not fear
The gypsies and mind-bents,
As we know how sorrowfully
They fell to endless euphoria.
Those of wit know how
To utilize it unspeakably.
Men master murder,
Women wish through warping.
Those who bounty both, shall
Heed their head's bounty.
For misfortune or fortune,
Life foretold you with this.

Young untouched boy,
One born of rat,
In the shaping of man.
Do not let them feel
Your forbiddingly slick fur.
Men bring nothing but
Filth.
My servant of young,
Now bearing the knowledge of
The lost Voryeki books, and
The dusty, untranslated tomes.
Wander, percieve and believe.

Do not disappoint me.