The Insomniac Writer

                I pissed away what passed for grace
(a darkened glass, a holy face)
                and fell for knockoffs built of rust,
fictitious gods of fumes and dust.
 
                I cried dead tears that laid to waste
the love I’d overlooked in haste,
                that gentle touch of Someone more
I’d left unanswered at the door.

 
Lie to me
like you did when I was young
a little lie
pale and beautiful
to take away the fear
 
Lie to me
like you did to kill the pain
a bit of hope
cruel and desperate
to soothe the sting of life

slowly she slips
beneath a sea of satin
                                a sinful shark
                                circling another savage
soul; a silent
succubus, serene and seductive
                                soundlessly snaking
                                through slipshod
resolve; a sexual
spirit-my sword her stolen souvenir

a daughter’s love is diamond dust
a mother’s might, a father’s must
a glory sometimes barely won
a light as bright as any son
 
a daughter’s love is heaven’s grace
a sacred yoke, a holy place
a badge of pride, an answered prayer
a precious gift beyond compare

All at once, I fell below
this poisoned winter’s blood-red snow,
a plunge to die and live again
a spirit on the eastern wind.
 
A spectre, then, to roam the earth
until, at last, I’m given birth,
and there, once more, shall fall below
this poisoned winter’s blood-red snow.