Dementia

The walnut sky: a small infinity

Imprisoned in the bounds of human eyes.

The midnights scurry round, the echo flies

About the blackened womb of a child’s scared plea.

There’s blood to have, and joy, so quietly,

Opens its legs in the trash of deadened lies.

The flesh of Christ impaled by laws of ice

And desecrated in a dark alley.

The clock-chime bounces off a heart of gold—

See, seven daggers melting in that flood—

It beats, a fist that holds suffering regard.

The drunken swarm is increasingly bold.

I sweat a tender juice of love, of blood;

The night takes me, my life and light grow cold.

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