Singing in the Rage
 

the thing that eats at me
is a delicate beast
a kindly soul
wandering
through gravestones
I mark terrible memories
with and wonder
what manner of madness
do shadows bring to bear
on open wounds.

why is the light
a poor antiseptic
for germs unyielding.

if I curse flesh
forsake spirit
kill flowers
crush machines:

what is left to hold

sickness or cure
woman or whore
fairness or flaw

what is left to hold
the attention
of rage.
 

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