You spent the greater part of your adulthood imagining
going back, going back and burning the flower land.
Sky so wide.
The blue seams but a story you were once told.
Isn't it to be expected?
This world is roughest for the sincere.
Boot knife the weight of an answer.
Why do we prefer our gods wounded,
torn of liver, tethered at ankle, loved but unredeemed?
The better to congregate around, my dear.
Cup of blood, gurgling well of blood.
Blood that squirts from the eyes.
Hymen verified by blood.
Blood code, blood bond.
You spent, you kept what you never were to yourself.
Please, God, a third chance, a fourth.