Washed
in the blood of the lamb
my hands are warmed.
But only till the wind blows
and the chill that holds the clouds
and makes the trees numb reaches down
to **** my youthful seed away and spreads
my grinded spice across the somber
kneeling slaves to God.

Cathedral halls will stretch to petrify
the fruiting flora
with the stained glass sun-
so filtered from the angel light...
My son, you've ****** me dry.