At Home, the gas lamp flickers;
bodies huddled 'round its quivering light.

It smells like death and oil,
but after so long of worshipping it
as Safety and Love-

You learn quick to mistake
Hurt for Home.

Let me put it this way, Little One:

You,
of flower petal lungs
softened and wilted
with soot and smog-
breathe in air darkened with Death.

Simply not meant for this world;
                                  for this life.

This world,
this life,         however,
is all you've ever known.

(You are a creature of habit, after all)

So:

When each breath is a wheezing, rasping gasp-

When each bone is brittle and aching beneath the skin-

When each second stitches itself into your being-

You will still curl 'round the dancing flame of the Gas Lamp.
For its warmth is familiar,
the quivering candlelight cradles your face
with the tender hesitance of a lover-

And oh,
isn't it lovely?

To be killed so slowly
in the arms of a Gentle Death,
my Love?

To let your mind be cradled,
carried by hands that are far older than yours,
my Dear?

To be led by a God's guiding hand
to a sacrificial altar,
my Lamb?