Writhing and twitching, stiff for long hours,

my bones have decayed like flowers gone sour.

Seventy-two inches below, I seize and throe,

my neck slick and split by Red’s murdering slit.



Wish I dare not to be removed from this spot,

despite all the strength St. Peter hath gave.



Midnights to middays, even I have so prayed,

for redemption from causing the cantankerous tumors,

cancer taking Our Mother, yet she holds me still.

I smell in her hair sweet songs from the air,

of small birds in great trees, wings aloft on the breeze.



The Emperor’s staff, swiftly swung in behalf

of my old lonely soul. Cinch my heart gripping tight,

oh how want I the bite, of love on my ear to soothe ancient fear.

What have I done with that fruit which I won?

I do not feel deserving of Her loving and serving,

the whim and the will of the young one who still

she calls Her Beautiful Child.