these awful throes oh lord,
of your begotten son, my soul
revolts against the walls of
this timeless misery.

Mysteriously, it is they
who unsheath the knife;
they, to whom destiny foretold
the carving of the eyes
straight from the sockets.
And I, with empty pockets
persist in pain:
tired, thoughtful, quiet, almost...
dead.

The cells that beat and move within me
reach their zenith and retire
the blood clots slowly, the hair loses its color
lifelessness ensues, and then we die.
It is the natural end to every story
told from the inside out
to a deaf world.