I will never fall through the stations again.
The panels of vibrant salvation
are now bleached away
to the raw truth
that I would still be crippled
by a splintered cross,
and the stony fact
that I must be self-salvaged-
how I must dispense grace
to fester in a fiery hovel,
clutching my helplessness
in its moist and parasitic grasp.
I shall not buckle
in the clamour and quiver
of a claim of powerlessness,
but dance joyously-
embracing Bacchus,
manic in the face of ashen Pluto's
rotting sorrow,
for the trinity is dead to me.
