The Elite

David, my sweet David,
You wrote Ovid and Caxton's Arthur,
Chaucer and T. S. Eliot.
Your beautiful wife Helen wrote the Iliad and Odyssey.
Our best friend wrote Paradise Lost.
Would you now lie, and say my letters are actually yours?
Another of our friends wrote Hyperion.

I believed in your lies;
All of them.
And I will still claim you're innocent
Though my brother is burdened by your sins.
And I am burdened by them, too.
I did see you hunting
The night your your prey escaped.
I saw it in the dreams
You gave me.

I am wise. And you 
You are the King of Tyre.

I had visions of Athena whispering into your ears
Telling you that he would corrupt you.
I saw your thrill at the ancient American Legends...
Yet, you did not write them.
I had to. I had to because you
Were out having fun.
You shirked your responsibilities
So you could live like a king
And do your magic.
And they are more mine, now,
Then they were ever yours.

So, I say this: You are not my brother.
Though, it is you, who like a changeling,
Have snuck into my life.
I say this:
David is innocent.
Because I am David,
And I am innocent.
Yet, you, I tell you, you are not.