the dearth of this illusion
lay upon me
like a bed of nails

bleed into the earth below
as heaven turns the other cheek

seven days have made me weak
as stars conclude
“and it was hell”

sinning in the furnace
with a grimace
of god’s grace

forced into a servitude
that no madness
would call for

prefacing the death
that only leads to life anew

on the surface we are left
to toil by our devices

waging wars against the conscience
absent as the soul