Gift

What sense do you lack,

that you cannot hear this song,

that you turn away from this warmth into your unlit world,

and crawl,

naked and afraid?

Thank you for this sweet communion,

that rolls like a ghost on my tongue,

empty if not for your name,

silent except for your song.

I can remember your face.

I taste you whenever I breathe.

If you would come back to me,

shining,

I would lay my head at your feet.

I can't believe that you're gone.

Here,

on my back I lay here,

foul-tongued,

working to build a cage of bitter words to trap revelations.

You,

you bought the fucking scripture whole,

and your soul is fed hand to mouth on another's words,

starving,

soon gone without a trace.

You have one chance left to accept absolution: dance like a madman to the demanding beat in your blood,

no matter it's bleeding from your feet wherever you step.

Dance like a whirlwind,

or you'll be lost;

and if the pressure is too strong,

if the desire to rest fills you with joy,

then you must leave this sacred room.

You don't belong here,

and you might as well be dead.

How I wish,

how I yearn after stars,

when all I can see is this light from a fire that died years ago.

If I excise the root,

the rest of this sick longing might disappear.

Child,

oh child,

can you hear me?

You weren't worth the price after all.

If your heart had truly been open,

you would have come back when I called.

You won't ever see me again.