Prisoner’s Song
I reach out through space
beyond the bar
which rusts and frames my view.
I can hear you there beyond the corner.
Old darkling Lord
gathered in shadows,
help me.
Hear me through eons thick with smoke
sinking sliding down
sickened in the miring mud
coughing flakes of rust and gold
at your table.
When the churning stops and
flushed with wine you rise, please Lord
snuff me out with a flick of your little finger
without remorse
without regret
without regard.