I form a noose from fate’s thin thread,

teeter on the chair of time,

and ask myself if God is dead

or just some cosmic mime.

I pledge to walk the rope of Grace,

suffer all that He may ask,

and search the homeless for His face

through shades of darkened glass.

I storm the gates of hell on earth

killing all that passed for life

and gorge myself on afterbirth,

the flesh and blood of strife.

I pray that Mercy finds me here,

ransoms me, a slave, a fool,

and pardons me these chains of fear

that anchor me so cruel.