I pear beyond the bindings
of my maze-like sleuth
and in crawling through the brambles
I see only void,
and that thick bristles have choked
and murdered truth,
leaving me Bacchus’ empty toy.
With psyche smashed and trodden glass,
I lift up and make myself
the perilous shard,
leaving me bloody-
chunked in the killing of the heart.
Self corrupted-
such deep and shinning pools
sucked to desert crumbs;
and so with God parched
within me like a fool
my shadow-self has won.
