---

Oh cutter of veins,

Thou who parts flesh,

Red are the roses you grow.

Let me this night

Be the soil from which you nourish.

Deliver into limbs

Your rhythmic slaughter.

Tender is the wound,

Shooting trickles through the sky,

And the freezing that follows.

Ramming concrete.

The snap of wet bone

Protruding its wrappings.

And the sickening delight

Of discovering therein;

There is virtue in mourning.

Stab and burn

With slashing vengeance.

Like a constant churn

This millstone penance.

I loose well if nothing else.

I smile not.

Life passes by

With giant leaps

In slow motion.

Steal not this from me,

Oh beautiful love.

Undeserving as I am,

Of your caring affection.

Chances are I’ll let you all down.

The essence of my being.