What vindictive pen writes my story
Draped in shadow and nightmares
Or one cast against blinding light, unseen.
What beast bleeds so He might smile or weep
And dip the quill, to craft
Words still warm
On taut skin, and cries
Ring against the pointless acts
Repeating through everchanging vessels
When do I pass into beauty?
Was unforseen by me
But not by He? to be
Forever chasing the high.