I

you spend the day
balancing on piano wire,
romancing with holy fathers,
convicts, and harlot martyrs draped
in derelict scarlet, feeling alive in
the war-torn breach,
you, the survivor,
of life and death, of hunger, strife,
I embed you
in this rendered skin of mine,
you preach and I obey, there
isn’t a night I don’t feel alone,
nor a day I don’t feel anger,
but you atone for me, ringing
brass on the shifting plates,
sifting the off-tune singing
in the base of my skull to a drone,
I always admired you,
always aspired to spread your word,
I have lost my way,
I am just so tired,
this dried blood creeping down
my brow makes this all so unfamiliar,
the gore has no source, and its
destination – unclear, it lingers,
like the ghost of a marriage, mingling,
biding time to gnaw on the stitches,
you taught…