I.  Dexter

This, the dance of figures and facts
Is tied to the rhythm of me
And all my pedestrian acts
And quirks.  I hear, I feel; I see
The sun in azure skies, the lines
Of gossamer arachnid silk
Between the trees, the vast deep mines
For anthracite and all its ilk
Begging to be plundered.  And I
Hear dead men's pain in hangmen's noose
On gallows, or the unbound cry
Of poor mothers made childless.  Use
Of such for gain is what we need
To make great progress yet.  I do
Not care too much for hearts that bleed
Over lost causes or what to
Do about the things that lie in
The dead past.  Live for your present
I say, and survive fittest.  Pin
Your future not on hopes that went
Out Christmas morns always seeking
Magic leaving, but coming back
With none.  Do what it takes; speaking
Softly but wielding clubs; or crack
The eggs to make the omelette;
Or value just the ends.  In this
Great universe not much is set
Until you make it so, so miss
No opportunity if at
All it can be helped.  Be bold and
Do what must be done; grab your bat
And helmet, walk to the plate, stand
In and take your pitches, but do
Not be afraid of getting struck
Or striking out.  Leave it to you
Alone to succeed, and not luck.

II.  Medius

O Freunde, nicht diese Töne!
Sondern laßt uns angenehmere anstimmen
und freudenvollere.

How can any patrician live
With such constant squabble below
And all around?  I try to give
Them everything they want and need
To make their lives decent, but they
Insist on overlooking deed
And decorum and dare to say
That still things could be better.  War
I know now is not the greatest
Of ideas.  It but leads to more
Troubles than before.  The latest
Feeling that I have of this mess
Is that it would have been so much
Better to remain more or less
Ante bellum, but all such
Dreams are fancy now.  This long fight
Amounts to regicide, and I
Am the king of the moment.  Light
Cannot puncture what is now my
Blindness, caused not by faulty eyes
But by the recklessness of old
Youth beyond its years.  The surprise
That I was not able to hold
Such simpletons within my grasp
Still lingers.  I still cannot cope
With how I saw them not as asp
But adder I could use like rope
To do what was to be done.  They
Apparently do not like to
Be told what to do, though I say
My guidance was thorough and true
And only for their benefit.
Nobody listens to me anymore
Though, and I cannot simply sit
Here forgotten.  This endless chore
Of digging myself from my hole
Is a task I know not how to
Do alone.  I know you, my role,
Are not this, but it's forced on you.

III. Sinister

My living paths have been taken
From me most unjustly, leaving
Only in their wake forsaken
Memories of disbelieving
That this is how life must be.  Pain
Is not so abstract as one might
Want to think, but in my poor brain
It drinks my blood and steals my light,
Rendering me largely numb.  I
Breathe idolatry and I eat
Disharmony like candy.  My
Nature is at once discreet
And vociferous.  Triumph for
Me is an antiquated thing,
As I am long plebeian, more
Bent on next repasts than tiring
Politicking.  My heart affords
Nothing but its own bad tempo,
Playing all of its restless chords
Molto, presto, adagio
With no regard for constancy
Or logic.  Whatever sounds best
Is what it spits out.  It leaves me
Struggling quite often to arrest
It's lunacy in vain.  Lilac,
Oleander, flamboyant, my
Childhood with hibiscus.  The black
Voracity of life can lie
With ease upon the petals, quite
Content upon the buds, aside
The stems like a parasite
With no thoughts but consume.  The tide
Bearing the Elysium bound
Ships somehow avoids my berth.  No
Matter though.  Just that naked sound
Is all it takes for me to know.