Wash your hands of my blood
stained with salt and soap-scrubbed
till your skin peels with rancid numbness.
My eyes sting to see your entourage of sorrow
follow the dirt path i carved in the earth
and the earth carved in me, and even then
you gawk – watching my stained nails at the
larva of Time and admire; O’ how the starved artist
will never again play the lyre, so
i strum the wires and lead us from the cave
as i brave heartbreak, an ache of things
too numb and tired to say and turn to see
that you’ve gone; instead
you’ve delivered me to the head of dead things,
the dream-ridden grave-yard far from the sight
of your golden palace, Pompous Pilate,
and i ask Why?
you've forsaken me to love but never be loved,
left deserted, desiccating in the dry heat,
body dirty, blistering till i shed ash and sleep.
And yet,
you spread my dust in the cave at the
lapping tongue of Hades. You –
The Great Blame.
Three years of yearning stokes the
flames for a decade of dreams burning,
serving thirty more to mourn, and
at last – I return to be born.