The door slammed shut so long ago,
your shadow in the breeze,
I find the pencil and the song you wrote
that brought me to my knees.

Christmas came on lower branches,
the cheap seats, the lonely guitar,
I sang to the person who you used to be
and smoked out who you are.

Even now I am still diseased,
still struggling to find a G-d.

Thought I found him in the autumn leaves,
before I was certain, he was gone.

The window shook on its hind legs
as the widow swallowed her sleep,
the spider came out from his abattoir,
all searching in darkness deep.

In a single bed, teeth grit shut,
twisting sheets in the street-light glow,
I hold my pillow like a brand-new woman,
exchanging heat for the money I owe.

Even now I am still fatigued,
indebted to G-d and home-grown guilt.

I have learned to grow and plant my seed
far from shadows that bring me to wilt.