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
