Filibustered, hanged by a quick quip of the head,
I write this afoot an altar made (your own)
I scab my finger until the tip bleeds down the nail bed.
I plucker the wheat you’ve sown: a soiled painting where the wall is blue.

When I do it, not a thought  is to prevail,
You? You peddle and you complain, sick *******.
Your crosses cover my light. Vexed, I too wail.

Then I run, run, and run no time, no rest to find.
You mean it when you say it, you do. I’d screech!
And quip, quip, quip. A quick prayer sails out your hind.

Whilst I wrote not slacking once dreading the end of you,
The weight of your stare lingered.
To me: a blight disguised in brown behind dead eyes I made my own.
You are alone.

In this hate you give, my God.
I’d worship with haste
but no valour nor truth.