fragile as an egg
I crack my skull over the page
and astral project my discontent
in order to witness my disconnect

the black oozes out
and takes its sweet time
to reach for the sheets
of paper to rhyme
my disillusionment
with suffering not mine
it speaks to me
all of the time

grasping the page
black eases in
to fill the void again
in vain attempt to connect
the patterns perceived
by my hand-selected memories

filed all orderly
they spill out in a heap
and soak in paper-deep
it's not enough
and it will never be enough
but blood must be spilled
in order to keep
my gods alive

they wane with the tides
sanguine and weak
I give all I have
but it rarely seems
to have an effect other than
a brief reprieve
for myself
it doesn't help
or decrease
their suffering...

so I weave words together
to spellbind the weather
from washing away
all I've worked to achieve
and perceive with augury
and sorcery and poetry
all scratched in the earth
so the world might hear me

vocalizations and invocations
fail to sway the rocks--
stone-faced, anthropomorphic rocks
--that just stare at me
secretly laughing
they're happy
their suffering

my gods are dying!
and I'm trying
to find a cure
but it isn't working
and more and more
I'm sure that

a congregation of one is not enough